


In the Dark

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 11, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Healing, Angst, Battle, Biting, Blood, Blood Play, Body Memories, Bondage, Bottom Sam Winchester, Brother Feels, Captivity, Child Death, Choking, Crowley - Mention, Crucifixion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Destiel - Mention, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasizing, Finger Sucking, Fire, Fisting, Flashbacks, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Non-Sexual Pet Play, Forced Orgasm, Forced Suicide, Gore, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Lucifer Possessing Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Making Out, Mass Death, Mass Destruction, Massacre, Masturbation, Mercy Killing, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Minor burns, Name-Calling, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-consensual licking, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Soulfisting, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sacrilege, Season/Series 11, Self-Harm, Sexual Slavery, Shooting, Slapping, Slavery, Spanking, Sub Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, The Samulet - Freeform, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Sexual Torture, Threats of Violence, Urban Fantasy, Vaginal Sex, Whipping, Whump, dub-con kissing, forced blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 10:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Sam is captured by Lucifer; Dean, Amara. They become slaves to them, and after months, their wills nearly broken, and with Amara and Lucifer at the height of their battle against each other, the Winchesters are given one final order:kill your brother.





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> I had a great time working on the [SPN Dark Fic Bang](https://spndarkficbang.tumblr.com/) that started back in April. Thank you [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses), [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles), and [son_of_a_bitch_spn_family](https://archiveofourown.org/users/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family/pseuds/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family) for putting this bang together and doing all the hardwork of coordinating everything! Wouldn't have gotten this done without you. And also, thanks for doing such an awesome theme. Dragged me into my first bang ever.
> 
> And a _huge_ thank you to [amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams) for being an absolutely amazing artist and amazing person. [Art for my story!](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/623610.html)
> 
> Fic beta read by the evil genius [evilwriter37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilwriter37/pseuds/evilwriter37).
> 
> And if anyone's interested, I made a ridiculously long playlist to go with the fic, so now you're really getting a multimedia experience.  
[In the Dark Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7tHQOqO2KgX03MzhrqAYkI)  
**PART ONE**  
Songs 1 - 11 ("Smoke on the Water" - "Control")  
**PART TWO**  
Songs 12 - 29 ("Monsters" - "Who's At the Door")  
**PART THREE**  
Songs 30 - 50 ("Carry On Wayward Son" - "Funeral March")

SAM HAD BEEN GIVEN A PRESENT. IT WAS ONLY BECAUSE HE HAD AN assignment to fulfill — capture an angel, find out where Amara was holed up — and for that he needed to be strong. There were other ways to find Amara, ways that included his brother, but Lucifer refused to use human methods to track God’s sister. Apparently, this required something above what God’s creations were capable of, which was why he had forced Sam to get hooked on demon blood again. It was why he had a demon placed before him now, tied down, unable to move. One of Lucifer’s hands reached out so he could use his Grace to tilt her head back. Sam was on his hands and knees, eagerly sucking from the knife-wound, drinking what was his, preparing for his mission as the Devil’s hunter and pet.

He’d learned quickly that if he succeeded in his missions he was rewarded with mind-blowing sex that left him questioning his very existence, and if he resisted, or if he failed and he was to blame, he was to be ripped apart by the very body that could make him feel rewarded. Sure, it was the body of Castiel, the body and friend that Dean had wanted and sought after, but Dean was Amara’s now.

“Mm, you’re thirsty,” Lucifer observed as a moan left Sam. He did his best to ignore him but still was unable to help the shiver that ran through him when his dark master put a hand in his hair, strong fingers caressing his scalp. “Does she taste nice, Sammy? All hot just for you?”

He yanked on his hair and pulled him back from his prize, and Sam snarled at him, hands reaching up to try and make him let go, but it was no use. He growled, and Lucifer tapped his nose. The demon on the floor was whining.

“Ah-ah-ah. You do what I say. I think you’ve had enough for now.”

“But my mission,” Sam forced out through crimson-painted lips, trying to think through the high running through his body.

Blood. Oh god, it was better than sex. Everything in him was alive, screaming, and pleading for more, more, _ more_.

“You’ll get more when you come back. And you won’t even have to drink from her. How’s that? No one to disturb us, hmm? Just you, and me.”

He leaned forward as if he was going to kiss him, and Sam didn’t pull away, knowing that meant his blood could get taken away from him, or he could get beaten, or Lucifer might shove something obscenely large inside of him and leave it there.

The Devil inhaled and pulled back at the last second.

“Now, what’s your mission again, dog?”

“Find an angel.”

“Correct.” He threw Sam on the floor and kicked him for added measure, pain blooming in his ribs, which left him curled on the floor, gasping for breath. “Now go.”

Before he could receive punishment for “lying around” he was scrambling to his feet and leaving the dilapidated throne room. Sam glanced at Crowley in his low cell on the way out but said nothing to him. Crowley was Lucifer’s dog too, just not the one he let off the leash or into his bed. Crowley was a bad dog, so he had to stay in his kennel.

Part of Sam knew thinking this, all of this, was unequivocally wrong, but he’d lost himself a long time ago. Time to get to work.

Boston. Dean had always wanted to go to Boston, not to see the museums though, like his nerd of a little brother. There was a lot of history in that city, and where there was history there were ghosts ready to gank some people, and Dean had always been eager to visit the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, or the Granary Burying Ground, and torch some dead sons of bitches. Those thoughts had hardly come into his mind when he’d come to Boston now. He was in some fancy hotel he didn’t know the name of, in some room he didn’t know the number of, the curtains open, showing a view of the city, and dear lord, Amara was on top of him.

It was hard to think when she was on him like that, hard to think when he was even near her.

There were things outside of her — people, a world — but what were they to Dean? They weren’t part of his bliss, this constant orgasmic high that she had him on.

Why they were there? Dean didn’t know. He’d been in clothes she’d made him wear: black jeans, a black v-neck, and a leather jacket, but they’d all been discarded, and she was pumping his cock, making him lose all sense of time and reason.

“Oh g-god, yes. Amara, _ yes_,” he breathed out.

She smiled, a beautiful smile that hid all that she was, masked all her power, and she leaned down to kiss him; his mouth was already open.

“God’s not here,” she murmured.

Dean nodded.

There was a hand on his balls, squeezing, tugging… oh, it hurt! He cried out and curled his toes, arching up into her. That pain was exquisite and he widened his legs in subservience.

“Human bodies are so interesting, aren’t they, Dean?”

“Oh yes,” he agreed, wanting to give her everything she wanted because it’d get him more of this, more of her, and they’d become one as she had promised.

The times they were one were perfect. Her release had been an accident, but now they were bound, and they couldn’t undo it. They were each other.

“Made to go together, made to feel, to hurt, to _ pleasure_.” On the last word, she released his balls and ran her hand along the inner part of his thigh, touch so light it felt like fire was eating into his flesh, and he moved his leg aside to escape her, desire burning in his gut and aching in his cock. A groan left him, and he reached out for her, fingers tingling as he touched her bare arms, and he began to caress, finding comfort in her naked body.

She pinched the skin of his thigh, and he squeezed at what part of her he held, which just so happened to be her full breasts. Her lips parted and she smiled, leaning into him, and her thumb ran over his slit quite forcefully, coaxing precum from him, the sensation a jolt that shot up from beneath his balls.

Then Amara gripped him, hard, leaving Dean whining, his eyes squeezed shut, and he drew her close, curling in on himself. His motions brought her forward, till she had to let go to hold herself up over him, and they were breathing heavy, her wet folds right up against the underside of him. He felt so full from knowing she wanted him that he began to grind himself against her slickness. Oh god, her body was hot, and soft, and—

Amara hugged him with her thighs, and pressed her hands against his chest, holding him down.

“Steady, Dean.”

Immediately, as if he had no choice, he listened, body freezing. Now he was gasping, mouth wide open, tense, waiting, teetering on the edge.

Amara lifted herself and let him fully enter her in one swift movement. Oh, the beauty of not having a human lover. He arched up into her, a growl leaving him, pleasure searing through every inch of his body from how very right this felt, and then she began to _ move_, nails scratching at his skin, catching at his nipples every so often.

And, oh, she could move, she could really move. Amara didn’t just fuck Dean or make love to him. This was beyond that. This wasn’t human. This was God’s sister, the Darkness, taking what was hers, being one with the person who had set her free.

Dean could only understand it in sexual terms, in the fire in his body, the pressure in his gut, the crazy way she made his cock throb and ache, the heavy tightness in his balls. She burned around him, burned soft and wet, and she rode him hard, the bed shaking, their skin slapping together; Dean couldn’t decide what part of her to hold onto and his hands left temporary red marks all over her body.

She kissed him, deeply and passionately, tongue finding his, telling him he was hers. His lips were eager to be bruised and swollen, and she worked him till he was bleeding. Amara licked up his blood, moaning at the taste of it, leaving Dean moaning, happy that he could provide.

Amara was a brutal lover, not taking the needs of Dean’s body into consideration unless it suited her. Soon, she had him over the edge, Dean grasping at her hips, trying to get her to still on him, to bury himself deep in her heat while pleasure burst through him in blinding white, jolting up from his toes, curling in his stomach till it hurt, but she kept going, not done with him yet.

There was no opportunity for Dean to soften. All of him was pushed through it, and he remained achingly hard, so much so that he was more vocal, could barely keep his eyes open or kiss back, and she just had her way with him.

“Stay with me, Dean,” she pleaded as if she felt his resolve weakening. “We’re one. We’re meant for this.”

All he could muster was a growl, and then he tried to roll so that he could be on top. It worked for a quick second, but they rolled again, Dean landing on the floor on his back, and Amara still rode him, an arm against his collarbone, strength beyond anything he’d ever felt before.

“Dean!” she cried out, his name sounding like the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard on her lips, and he lost himself to her, letting her take him and use him to her heart’s content, have her fill of his cock and his cum.

She was climaxing on him, which made him cum again, and he dug blunt nails into her back, bending his knees to keep her close.

Dean might’ve yelled something, her name, an obscenity, but it was just jolts of hot, liquid bliss emptying into her.

He thought maybe he saw stars, the universe, but then the light was going out, snuffed out by her, by Darkness, and he’d never seen anything so beautiful. The lack of life was something he felt in his core, radiating out to his toes and fingertips, a bitter sweetness. In it was nothing. In it was bliss. Amara would consume the universe, it would become her, it would become the dark, the nothingness that all things must become.

Dean’s high didn’t end when his body relaxed, and Amara didn’t let him leave her. Tingles ran through him, and each breath was like a gift from her.

“You saw,” she breathed.

“Yes.”

“That’s my plan.”

“It’s perfect.”

When she shifted forward to kiss him she made her insides hug him, to keep him with her, and Dean closed his eyes, groaning from it.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” he admitted, the words leaving him without thought.

“We will, but not yet.”

There it was. His assignment. It wasn’t often that Amara had Dean leave her side, and when he did it was as if he barely knew where he was, but he found ways to function, told himself things that got him through, reminders that he would see her again.

“What do you need me to do?”

This time when Amara smiled it wasn’t human. It was the Darkness, and that smile sunk down into Dean’s soul.

Sam had had his fair share of New England for a while, especially with the weather that couldn’t decide what season it was, but he couldn’t ignore the signs of something holy or otherwise unholy being there. Either he would succeed in his mission or he would get to have an extra treat, and both sounded fine by him.

It’d taken almost two hours to get to Boston, but the traffic was the worst in the country, so he stopped at a motel for now. It was times like these that he considered running away, running away and never looking back. He had the Impala, something that Dean hadn’t been able to take with him when Amara had taken him, and he had money, clothes — though Lucifer had had him ditch his beloved flannel for tight-fitting v-necks, and jeans that hugged his ass more than he liked. But he’d managed to stop some of his shirts from getting burned in the fire that Lucifer had set to destroy their home. A few shirts, some books — it was all that remained of the bunker. And the amulet that Sam still kept without Dean’s knowledge, without Lucifer’s, without anyone’s. Sometimes he looked at these things and wondered if he was even still himself, if they were part of a life that he even had anymore, if he was pretending.

Sam still remembered the night the bunker had burned down, the death that had nearly fallen upon him, the emptiness, the fire…

_ Not Castiel. Not Castiel. _

_ Lucifer. _

_ Lucifer set fire to the bunker after he’d touched Sam’s soul and gotten Dean back, and he laughed gleefully once he dragged them outside. Dean was grabbing onto Lucifer, crying: _

_ “Cas, I know you’re in there! Cas, please! _ Cas!_” _

_ He was shoved off and punched in the face for his words, nose bleeding. _

_ Sam rushed back into the bunker. Lucifer grabbed him by the back of his shirt, like a dog on a leash, ripped through the fabric, and Sam ran into the flames, skin burning, tears heating on his skin. _

_ Their home. Their home was on fire, smoke going up in the night, blocking out the stars, the moon, and Sam ran, heat enveloping him. _

_ There was a voice crying out for him; his brother: _

_ “ _ SAM!_” _

_ He ignored it, not ready to let this be the end, to see everything he cared for be destroyed, to be ruined in torment that he knew. Tongues of flame reached out for him, trying to lick at his skin, like it knew him, was familiar with the way he tasted. And still, he ran, down the stairs, coughing, crouching low, to the library, through the halls, to his room. _

_ Black smoke was overtaking him, entering his lungs, filling him up, and he was unable to breathe. The heat was eating him like it was a physical entity, his body coated in sweat, lips dry, throat parched. Sam grabbed some of his clothes, took something from his desk that he’d kept long hidden, from himself, from Dean, from everyone. _

_ He didn’t know what the future held, but he’d keep this. He’d always keep it. _

_ Finally, he dragged himself back to the library and grabbed a few books, not sure which ones they were, but knowing he needed to keep some part of his home alive, some part with him. _

_ Sam lay huddled on the ground, covering his few belongings, one hidden deep in his pocket, and he was unable to move, breaths rattling in his chest, too weak to cough. Lucifer came in, possessing his friend, eyes searing red, the fire parting before him. He crouched down by Sam, grabbing his hair, lifting his head up. _

_ The Devil _ tsk_ed at him. _

_ “Trying to save your home? Poor Sammy. So pathetic.” _

_ Lucifer pulled him up, Sam shoving what he could into his shirt so Lucifer wouldn’t bother destroying it, and he didn’t seem to care. He hissed in a breath as he bit his ear, and that touch healed. Then he was marched through the halls of his burning home, to the garage. _

_ “Dean won’t mind if we take this,” Lucifer told him, shoving Sam into the driver’s seat of the Impala, hand slapping his ass. “I think he’ll find himself preoccupied quite soon.” _

_ Sam was too numb now to cry, and he sat there, hands on the wheel. Lucifer put a hand on his thigh, nails gripping hard, and made him drive out into the night, away from the destruction of his home. And he didn’t even get to say goodbye to Dean. _

He could run away from all this. He could. He could get all the way to California, or maybe Canada.

_ No. He’d find you. He’d find you, and he’d… _

Sam’s head finished that thought with images, bare flesh, sensations, burning and stabbing soreness in his body, knowing exactly what he’d do, and Castiel’s vessel hadn’t exactly been small: he was big all around, not just in his cock — thick thighs that he loved to slam against Sam or hold him down with, wide hips, broad shoulders, and a torso that he could use to press him down into the bed, or press him against a wall, the floor, anywhere, really. As long as he got him and fucked him, he was happy. So different from Nick’s body, more toned, and his cock really was bigger, with a much greater girth.

So no, he couldn’t run away.

He had to do his job.

There was something here in this city, and he was going to have to find it. Sam knew the easiest way to do that was to lure it to him, cause a disturbance that was large enough to get the attention of an angel.

Maybe a massacre would do.

Sam didn’t want to do it, but it would get him blood.

Oh god, he needed it.

It was burning through him, pulsing, pumping, pounding away at the inside of him like it needed out, like it was begging for more of him, telling him that there was some space left in him yet to be filled.

No, he couldn’t wait to get into the inner part of the city, he had to lure the thing out _ now_, so he could get back, get the rest of his present. So Sam pushed his morals aside, pushed aside whatever fears and doubts and squeamishness he had and readied his shotgun. Lucifer would like that he was using his shotgun. Shotgun shells were bigger than bullets, the wounds bloodier, more painful, the deaths messier. If he did it right, killed enough people, maybe… But Sam couldn’t count on maybe. Lucifer didn’t like maybe. He’d taught Sam that he liked “yes,” “yes,” “_yes_.” Sure, he had his demons out looking for Amara, but another thing he’d taught Sam: demons were useless, demons were expendable. Demons were nothing.

There were summoning spells, ones in Enochian that Sam knew from all the Enochian Lucifer had screamed at him in the Cage, one of the many things being his name, but those required blood and a body, none of which Sam had at the ready.

After washing his face in the sink, and meeting the red-rimmed, haunted eyes in the mirror, he slipped on a red and black plaid shirt and went out to the Impala.

Amara told Dean where he would be, where he would find him. But Dean didn’t want to leave. Dean never wanted to leave, not since she’d found him, not since she’d saved him.

_ Sam was gone. _

_ Lucifer was gone. _

_ The Devil had his brother. _

_ Dean was on his knees, hands on his head, tears trailing down his face, watching windows blow out, glass shattering, listening to metal screech, stone and brick crumbling in, as the bunker fell to pieces. It was hours before the fire died out, and he ended up on all fours, and then on his side, curled up on the ground, no more tears, alone. _

_ There was smoke in the sky, and no emergency responders. All the magic in the bunker was somehow still working, making it so no one could easily find it, so Dean ended up wandering, lost. _

_ The sky was lightening into gray, ash falling, dusting his hair. He was by a stream now, the water meandering off to his left, and he thought it might be cold, and refreshing, but he didn’t stop to wash himself, just breathed in the ash and smoke and ruin in the air, and kept trudging on, not even sure if he was heading in the right direction to make it to town. _

_ He didn’t care. _

_ A twig snapped. _

_ Dean started, turning, bliss pounding away in his chest, pupils going huge, and he found himself inhaling deeply, hardly able to breathe after that. _

_ A beautiful figure of darkness stood before him, an elegant woman dressed in a black dress, brown, wavy hair down past her shoulders, dark eyes and sharp features studying him. _

_ “Dean.” _

_ “A-Amara.” _

_ “Yes, it’s me, Dean.” _

_ He fell to his knees, more tears falling, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, surprising him — he’d thought he’d cried all he could. _

_ “No,” he told her. “ _ No. _ ” _

_ She stepped over to him slowly, body swaying enigmatically, the dress drawing his eye even more, making her truly appear to be some otherworldly creature, and he was nothing compared to her. She slowly got on her knees, getting on his level, and cupped his face in her hand. _

_ “I know what he did. Your home is gone.” _

_ “Leave me alone,” Dean spat, tone bitter, but weak next to her strong, hard voice filled with the ages. _

_ Her hand ran into his hair, and he closed his eyes, breathing heavy, leaning into her caress, moaning. _

_ “I can’t. We belong together. You and I, we’re one.” _

_ “Sell it to someone else.” _

_ “No. It’s just you.” Amara grabbed his face now with both hands, insistent, and she leaned closer. “Dean, let me be your home.” She kissed him, lips divine and better than the heavens, and Dean was so overcome with her, so powerless in the face of the dark that he couldn’t even say no. _

Dean was still in that blissful dark, and he was ready to do her work.

Sam thought a restaurant would do nicely. It was around lunchtime on a Saturday, so it’d be packed. It was a fancy restaurant too, Italian, with a fountain outside, a nude angel with a stone cloth covering its privates. It looked like water had fallen from its cupped hands, an offering to people in need. Reports had said that the week before it had run with blood, but humans, ever eager to continue with their lives as if nothing had happened, had turned off the fountain, cleaned it, kept it off and went back to their normal dining habits. To Sam it almost seemed like the angel — a feminine-looking male — seemed sad, lonely. He got his shotgun from the trunk and loaded it.

For once in New England in this time of year, the weather had decided it liked spring, but it was windy, and his hair was getting in his eyes. Sam pumped the fore-end and headed for the double doors with gold handles. No one through the glass had spotted him yet.

Sam didn’t have a chance to hesitate once he was in the restaurant. The hostess behind the marble counter saw him, her eyes widening, and with the butt of the shotgun placed firmly against his shoulder he aimed, and he fired, his only thought on the blood he would get once he got back to his master. The _ BLAM! _ that sounded throughout the restaurant was louder than his heartbeat pounding through him, beating for more of his drug. Her body fell to the red carpet, slumping behind the counter, and screams started up all at once.

There were no demands to make, no need to yell for everyone to stay down, no lies that no one would get hurt. People were running, men in suits, and dress pants and button-up shirts and ties, women in skirts and dresses and expensive jewelry, and heels that were causing them to trip. There were two parts to the restaurant from the hostess’ desk, a left wing and a right wing, and Sam went left first, pumping another shell into the action, watching terrified diners try to take cover under elaborately carved round tables. He blinked the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes out of the way, aimed at a woman cowering near a corner, face hidden by a pale tablecloth, got her shoulder through to her neck, thought maybe he saw bone through bloody matter and tissue, and went on to continue the job, even as gore sprayed from her hiding place.

_ They’re monsters, Sam. Just monsters. _

That’s what he was telling himself. He was pretending they were ghosts, or a room full of ghouls, maybe they were all werewolves, or a weird kind of vampire that could go out during the day. Maybe they were demons.

_ Just monsters. _

He pulled the trigger on another person, blood misting in the air, crimson staining the red carpet, the blood a darker shade.

_ I have to do this. _

People were running behind him, out the doors, and Sam let them go. The police would be there, but it was Boston, the reaction time wouldn’t be quick. He still had time to do his work.

Sam knew he was damned, knew the moment Lucifer had touched him again, the moment he had forced blood into his mouth and then kissed him so he’d keep it down, the lips those of his best friend, but he prayed to God as he fired off another round, the sound firing through his soul that had been touched and violated a few months ago when he’d discovered that Cas was possessed. He prayed that this could end and that there would be a way out for him.

He had six shotgun shells left, and the trigger seemed to burn against his finger, making more tears spring to his eyes.

He paused.

Shouts of “_NO _” met his ears, prayers, pleas.

One man with blood spray on his face, shaking uncontrollably yelled, “STOP!”

“I don’t want to do this,” Sam admitted to them, taunts in Lucifer’s voice coming to his head from the tremble in his voice.

“Then why?” he asked.

“I have to.”

Sam aimed at the person beside him, deciding to spare this man, and just as he was about to fire, a large mass rammed into him, and he was thrown to the floor, landing right in one of the pools of blood staining the carpet, getting rug burn on his elbows so badly that it tore through all the layers of his skin. The gun had clattered from his hands, and he reached for it as his attacker straddled him with strong legs, and got an arm around his throat.

Shotgun out of reach, he rammed his head backwards and was met with a pained cry, his attacker falling back and off of him. Sam crawled towards the gun, grabbed it, and he was going to aim, but before he could even see what was going on, the man was on him, and the gun was slammed right against his collarbone. Once he stopped struggling, saw the familiar body on top of him dressed all in black, the familiar face, everything in him froze, and the tears building up in his eyes released, rolling down the sides of his face into his hair.

“_Dean? _”

“You can’t be here,” Dean growled at him. “She’ll kill you.”

While he was subdued, the people that had been hiding decided it was safe to make a run for it, and they began to do so. A few had to be helped, as they’d gotten hurt in their rush to hide from him, but no one had survived his shots: Sam had perfect aim. The restaurant had been emptied, and it was just the two of them now, left with the mess, fine china, and broken glass all around them, tables knocked over, four bodies and gore lying about them, blood splatter on the carpet, and red on the stone statues. Some of the blood was on the angel statues’ faces, like tears.

“Amara?” Sam gasped out, gun starting to press into his throat, and he really wished his brother would let up. His pupils were huge as if he’d taken something, but Sam knew it was the effects of the Darkness on him. “Dean, she’s using you.”

“Sammy, she has a plan.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna destroy the universe!”

“She’s gonna fix things! She sent me to stop you. She knew you were gonna be here.”

“Lucifer… Lucifer sent me. He’s gonna… He’s gonna hurt me.”

There was pity in his brother’s green eyes, but he said, “Sammy, you gotta go.”

“Come with me,” Sam breathed.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Dean got off of him, Sam heaving in a breath now that his brother’s weight was off of him and the pressure from the gun was let up.

“I won’t.”

He started to walk away, and Sam sat up, placing the gun aside.

“Dean, wait!”

“Bye, Sam.”

“Dean! _ Dean!_”

And just as soon as he’d appeared, he was gone, disappearing down the hall, behind the fish tank that had survived the firing and chaos, and out through the doors. Sam saw him through the window for a bit, but then he was out of his view.

Sam had lost track of time since he’d been with Lucifer. It’d been a few months.

Months. Months since he’d seen Dean and now they’d only gotten to share a few sentences, and he was gone again.

“_I won’t._”

His brother wouldn’t go with him.

_ Where could we go, Sam? _

He loitered for a few hurt, aggravated seconds, police sirens screaming in the distance, before grabbing the shotgun and jogging out to the Impala. He placed the gun in the trunk, ditched the ruined flannel and hid it under the seat, and then took off, wondering if he’d receive punishment for this. No angel.

But he had information.

He couldn’t imagine that Amara would let his brother wander far, so he knew where she was.

They’d get Amara, and Sam would get his brother back.


	2. PART TWO

FACING THE DEVIL AFTER A FAILURE ALWAYS SENT SAM SPIRALING, BUT HE did it for one thing and one thing only: the blood. So after he got himself to breathe normally again and made sure he could walk without fainting, he entered the throne room, where he knew the rightful King of Hell would be lounging. His other dog was out this time, and he was licking the floor with Lucifer petting his head. Sam ignored it, feeling as if he was choked by his failure, unable to think of anything but the blood on him and the fact that he didn’t have an angel.

He kneeled low, bowing his head, and even got on all fours before him, ready to submit himself to whatever punishment he’d receive.

He… deserved it.

Yes, that’s what Lucifer would tell him.

He deserved it.

Sam thought maybe he believed it.

“So nice to have you back, Sammy. How’s Dean?”

He raised his head at that, even daring to meet those too-blue eyes that had once been so friendly to him.

He smiled, showing his teeth, which made Sam flinch — those teeth could bite.

“Yes, I knew where you’d go, and I knew where Dean was. I just needed confirmation. How is he? Did you two have a little chat? A nice brother moment that’ll make me gag? Aw, did you two hug?”

“So you didn’t need an angel?” Sam guessed.

Lucifer patted Crowley on the top of his head, summoned a demon who approached timidly with the wave of his hand, and then handed him Crowley’s chain for him to go back in his kennel. Then he stood, approaching Sam. Sam cowered, trying to make himself seem smaller, wishing he could disappear.

“Of course not! One of my demons already got the information for me. I just needed to know for sure. So Dean, you did see him, right?”

Sam rose, sitting back on his heels, staring up at him, trying to hold his tears at bay.

“_I killed people._”

Lucifer patted his cheek, and Sam snarled at him, trying to draw away, but then he held his face in his hands.

“You make me proud.”

He got on his knees before him and licked up some of the blood that was on his jaw, tongue wet and warm. Sam groaned, thinking of things he’d like to be tasting with his tongue right about now.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Lucifer admonished, fingers going to his lips. “You’ll get your prize, but only if you cooperate.”

He inhaled his scent, making the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end, and he grasped his throat, but still left him able to breathe, and now he searched his eyes.

“So tell me, what happened?”

“I… I saw Dean.”

“And?”

“He’s with Amara. His eyes… They weren’t right.”

Lucifer grinned, and leaned in to murmur, “Neither are yours. Now, have you eaten today?”

“Why do you care?”

The Devil pouted and brushed his hair aside, thumb now stroking at his neck, making his pulse quicken, unwanted desire thrumming through the body that knew his touch so well.

“I care about my pet.”

_ Slave, _ Sam corrected in his head, but he supposed _ pet _ wasn’t good either.

Food was the last thing on Sam’s mind. There were still demons in the room. He could smell them, could hear their hearts beating, and he realized he was shaking.

“But later, right, Sam? You want to finish what we started earlier, don’t you? How about we go to my room? You can have it in there.”

Sam wasn’t one to beg, but he breathed, “Oh, yes please,” and then Lucifer’s lips were against his, mouth open, grip on his neck tightening till he was sure he was going to bruise.

He didn’t fight, had given up fighting a long time ago, and he let it happen. Besides, this would get him what he needed.

Sensations blurred together, and then he was in the king’s room, on his lavish bed decorated in dark colors and velvet, his shirt torn from him, blood getting licked off of him. He growled since it hardly seemed fair, but in no time at all his nipples were hard and his cock was straining against the confines of his jeans.

He could smell the demon blood — it was somewhere in the room — and he tried to search for it, but Lucifer held him down, nails digging into his flesh, making him tilt his head back and groan, and then the Prince of Darkness was naked, had stripped his clothes from himself. And there he was, in the body of his best friend, with the face of his best friend. Blue eyes, dark hair, the chiseled features, and tan undertones to his skin, the sheer mass of him. But it was too _ him_. Too… _ Cas_. But that look on his face, it was all Lucifer, and he was aroused.

“God, no,” Sam panted out. “Please, no.”

He just wanted the blood. Nothing else.

His vision was hazy and red, and he licked his lips.

Lucifer ran his thumb over his bottom lip, his eyes dark, and then he was working Sam’s pants off of him, and it was impossible to fight him. Before he could think about what was happening, his belt was in the Devil’s hands, and then it was snapped against his ass so hard that skin broke. He knew why. He’d said “no.” To get his point across Lucifer whipped him all up his back, and then back down to his ass. Sam’s arousal left him, but his desperation for his high only grew as he screamed and clawed at the bed. He was left sweating and panting when Lucifer dropped the belt to the stone floor.

“You know I don’t like that word.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sam panted out, wincing as burning throbbed through him. 

He shuddered from it, the agony a bright scarlet, and then Lucifer got up. When he came back to the bed he held a bronze goblet, and Sam forced himself up onto his hands, mouth open, a hungry moan leaving him. The demon blood was in there.

The Devil smirked and had a sip for himself.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

Sam nodded eagerly and then watched as Lucifer dipped two fingers into the goblet, coating them in the thick, red substance. He held them out for Sam, and without thought, he sucked them into his mouth before any droplets could fall, voice leaving him with delight at the pleasure it spread through him, the life it brought to his pained body. Lucifer let him have more like that, letting Sam even go so far as to lick his hand, and then he poured it on himself, onto his hardened cock. Sam groaned in dismay, but Lucifer twisted his hand in his hair and pulled till his scalp burned, making him cry out.

“_Be good,_” he growled at him, eyes searing red, a threat. He didn’t speak more, didn’t tell him he could do worse, that he would. They both knew what he was capable of, and that mercy wasn’t in his vocabulary.

He didn’t release him and pushed his head down, and that was all the time Sam was given to prepare himself. He could almost forget the shape of Lucifer’s, well, _ Castiel’s_, body, forget the taste of skin, forget everything, when he began to lick up what was his. It was still warm and had a sweetness to it that human blood lacked, that any kind of blood lacked. It was _ real _ and _ good _ and when Sam got down to skin there was more of it in another place for him to lick up. There were strong hands in his hair keeping his head down, making him have it, and he couldn’t get enough. His need burst through him till it scraped at his nerves, was tingling in his head, and trickling down into his mouth, and unable to help himself, he ended up with the Devil’s cock between his lips, sucking. Sam took it in till he choked, and kept taking it in, needing that sweetness that coated him, that high.

“Yes, Sammy, good. Good boy.”

He moaned at the praise, shivered at the feeling of power coursing through his veins. Being on the blood was akin to arousal, and at the moment his body couldn’t differentiate the two, and even through the pain in his back and his ass he became turned on once more, precum slicking up the head of his cock. He wasn’t so hard that he was aching, but Lucifer could make him that way, knew his body well enough that he could make it betray him. He hoped it wouldn’t turn into that, but he had done what he’d wanted even if he’d gone in blind, so he’d be rewarded. This was only the beginning.

Choking, but desperate, he forced his head down more, the taste of blood filling his mouth, his thickness overcoming him, and then he felt something, something he’d felt in the Cage sometimes. It was a sensation he didn’t understand, but before Sam realized it he was trying even harder to get his cock in him, wanting that spot in his throat to get hit, to let the pleasure sing through his neck, saliva dripping from his lips. The pleasure was warm, filling him up, and he was gagging, voice leaving him in guttural sounds that he found ugly, but Lucifer seemed to enjoy them because he was moaning. Disturbed, Sam didn’t let it go on for long.

When he was done drinking up the blood on his cock, Lucifer gave him more, this time straight from the goblet, caressing his chin as he held it up for him and let him have it.

“That’s a good boy,” he crooned in Castiel’s voice if only a tad higher, but now roughened. “That’s my Sammy. You know, I can’t believe I was going to kill you. Having you as my little pet. So much easier. Well…” He got on his knees, sidling up to him, and Sam moaned into the goblet as he gripped him in between his legs, stroking with eager confidence. “You’re not so little, are you?”

Sam paused when Lucifer’s grip grew tight, and he grunted, hips leaning forward in the hopes that it would lessen the uncomfortable sensation that was just on the edge of pain.

“It’s alright, baby. It’s alright.”

He pushed the goblet against his lips, trying to coax him back to it, and Sam growled at him before continuing to drink.

Lucifer stroked him as praise.

“You’re not very hard to reward either. I don’t mind. Besides, this _ is _ my body. I like all that I can do to it. It’s the best gift Dad could’ve ever given me.” He let go of his cock to run his hand over one of his thighs, Sam tensing beneath his touch. “So strong, so firm. Guess I just wanted to rip you apart for the fun of it, you know? I would’ve brought you back. You know that, right? I’d always bring you back. You, me, no one else. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

He pulled the goblet back as Sam had started licking the inside of it, realizing he was done, and he tossed it aside, letting it clank to the floor. He gripped his face, forcing him to look at him; Sam was too high to care. He was too high to be bothered that he was in the bed of the fallen archangel, too high to care that he’d killed people, good people, too high to care that he wasn’t himself anymore. There was just this, just this good feeling, and an eager hand on his body. It hurt that it was Castiel’s face that he looked back at, and he wondered, through the haze of demon blood, if Castiel was in there somewhere, begging for a way out, or if Lucifer had buried him.

“I know that face,” Lucifer murmured. “You’re thinking about him again.”

Sam didn’t know how to respond, and soon he didn’t have to because he was slapped so hard he was bleeding. The force of the blow had him fall onto the bed on his side, one of his elbows with the rug-burn taking most of the pressure, and he held a hand to his bleeding face.

“He’s gone, Sam,” Lucifer told him as he grabbed his legs to widen them. “It’s just me. And sure, maybe I can’t get you to say ‘yes’ to me, but I have you right where I want you, wrapped around my finger, obeying _ every command_. Now get on your back.”

He did as he was told, grunting and groaning through the pain of the lashes he had, but he let Lucifer widen his legs, let him run his hands up the inner parts of them. His balls were lifting at that as if they were unwilling to be touched. Lucifer’s thumbs found his perineum and he stroked hard, pleasure swirling up into Sam’s stomach till he was light-headed and gasping for breath.

“You were good, today,” Lucifer told him as he settled down against him, pelvis right up against his leg, his own legs wrapped around Sam, calves resting on his abdomen, so he could hold him close. “You did the job.”

“Yes, Lucifer,” he responded, quivering from feeling him right up against his thigh, ready to take him.

“Good dogs get rewarded.”

“Yes, Lucifer.”

“Oh, come on, Sammy, you have a brain. Or are you incapable of stringing together more than two words when getting fucked?”

As if to make it more difficult for him he took one hand away to start pumping his cock, and Sam writhed where he lay, legs opening wider without his consent. All he could do was groan through gritted teeth.

“Well, to change up a quote a little from one of your favorite shows, ‘_He doesn’t have to be smart to get fucked in the ass._’” Sam raised his head in shock at that, and Lucifer said, “Don’t look so surprised. I haven’t actually watched _ Game of Thrones_, but I’ve taken enough adventures in your head to know it’s there. You have a thing for Daenerys, huh? You like them tiny, don’t you? Tiny, with nice big tits and hips, and beautiful legs that could hold you while you fuck ‘em into the ground? My Sammy likes it rough. Don’t worry, I’m gonna give you rough.”

It was at that point that Sam broke through his high, his arousal, and had the urge to scream _ Get off me! _ but he held it in, and his voice left him in a growl that came from his chest.

“Ah, there we go,” Lucifer crooned. “Getting you nice and hard.”

God, why couldn’t he just stop talking?

It was bad enough _ liking _ this when he didn’t want it — why did he have to bring talking into it, and talking about one of his fictional crushes? Sam wasn’t even comfortable enough with himself to admit that he liked Daenerys in that way. He could barely like real people in that way.

But he was so hard thinking about it, starting to ache, and Lucifer could tell. He pressed down on his perineum till it hurt, and it sent a jolt all the way up to his cock, making him twitch in his grip, and he whined. His already-reddened cheeks darkened in shame from that noise, but it lit up the Devil’s eyes in excitement.

Lucifer left him, and then lube was dripping on him, and his fingers were slick with it. Sam gripped his biceps as he knelt by him and worked on opening him up, the word _ no _ on his lips, heavy on his tongue, _ please stop _ echoing in his mind.

His back and ass flared in bright stripes of pain, a reminder of what disobedience would get him, and it could get him more. It could get him less preparation for Lucifer entering his body, or perhaps something else could be put in him. One night Lucifer had threatened him with a candlestick, the archangel telling him he’d make sure it’d stay burning. He’d threatened him with a many things, things that Sam knew it was only a matter of time before he’d do since he’d done it all before in the Cage: spurs against his cock, clamps on his nipples and balls, sounding, double-fisting, electrocuting his prostate… The sexual tortures seemed endless with him, and he even said one of these days he was going to send him out on one of his missions with a vibrator up his ass with the dial set to ten. Torture was Lucifer’s forté, it was what he knew more than anything, and he could make it as sexual, or non-sexual as he liked, but he seemed to be reveling in the sex at the moment, not over his high of having Sam all to himself once more.

He’d teared up when he’d seen him again those months ago in Hell. The Devil would never admit it if Sam questioned him about it, if anyone did, but he’d seen it. Crowley and Rowena certainly hadn’t, but Sam had.

He’d missed his “bunk buddy.”

With just two fingers in him Sam was already gripping him tightly, arching into him, thighs trembling as he did his best to stay relaxed. Desire painfully tugged at his gut, causing him to huff out long breaths through his mouth. Lucifer paid them no heed, seemed enamored with the body that belonged to both of them. His fingers were moving in and out of him quickly, and then a third finger was added, making Sam grit his teeth.

“How’s that, Sam? Rough enough for you?”

“Hmm-mm…” was all he could get out, not sure how to form words that weren’t _ get out of me_.

Lucifer’s other hand was cradling his balls now, and he tugged and squeezed, and Sam felt it deep in his stomach, like it was almost pleasure, but too rough. Lucifer could be gentle. He could. He could! Why wasn’t he being gentle? Sam had earned it. He had!

“I thought I earned… earned gentle,” Sam argued breathlessly.

“No, you earned the good stuff. Let me work.”

A fourth finger was added, and he did tense then, which caused Lucifer to slap the inner part of his thigh, and Sam closed his legs at that, groaning. His fingers kept moving in and out of him, and he curled up onto his side.

“Hey! On your back! _ On. Your. Back! _ ” Now he spanked him, making Sam cry out as his hand hit open wounds. “Legs _ open_.” His hand found his ass again, and Sam clenched his jaw against a scream. Lucifer’s fingers left him to wrench his legs open, and he did so so quickly he thought maybe he pulled something, an ache traveling through his thigh. He leaned down and began to kiss his flesh, mouth hot and gentle.

It was weird that he was hot. In the Cage he’d been cold, so cold, but in Cas he wasn’t cold, like he could control it. He was… normal.

Sam shuddered from pain, but soon Lucifer’s gentle caresses and his mouth making its way up his leg had him relaxing, his legs widening. A low, pleased laugh left him.

Lucifer’s hands ran up his thighs and Sam looked up at him, seeing the dark grin on his face that told him he wanted to eat him.

“There, not so bad, see?”

It wasn’t an apology, but that wasn’t something he was going to get.

The Devil leaned in and kissed the head of his cock, making it twitch, and Sam huffed out a breath through his nose at the fiery trail that jolted through him.

“Now let’s try this again.”

He placed one hand at his perineum, fingers stroking, pleasure bleeding through him, and then three fingers were in him again, moving quickly. While he did that he licked and sucked at his thigh, teeth grazing. Sam was a moaning mess from it, hands running over Lucifer’s head and shoulders and arms, knowing he could receive some form of punishment if he refused to touch him. It hadn’t exactly been like this in the Cage, not all the time, and at least those punishments weren’t permanent like they were here where injuries and death lasted, but it was almost nice to have something, _ someone_, solid as an anchor through all of this.

Then the moment Sam had been anticipating came, and his breaths came from deep in his belly, as bright pleasure arced through him straight to his cock, and didn’t let up, feeling like he was going to cum: Lucifer had found his prostate and now he was massaging it.

“There we go, Sammy. My hunter did his mission, so he gets his reward. Hmm, do you think Dean’s getting a reward?”

“Wh-what?”

“Dean — you think he’s getting fucked right now?”

  


Dean once again wasn’t sure of where he was. Well, he was in a cathedral, but what cathedral? He didn’t know. The pillars that curved up to the vaulted ceiling all in a startling white marble reminded him of the throne room of Minas Tirith in _ The Lord of the Rings_. Everywhere he looked he saw the intricate craftsmanship of the gothic revivalist period, lanterns hung from wooden arches along the sides, and amongst the beauty, strewn in the pews and the polished floor: bodies. It was Amara’s fault, and she’d let him help. Dean liked helping, because it made her smile at him, and then she had put a hand in his jacket, and kissed him, and then his jacket was off, and on the bloodied floor, where the liquid had puddled, and splattered into beautiful designs, muddling the reflections of the religious beauty they’d soiled.

They hadn’t talked much of earlier, of Sam, of why he’d been there. Dean just knew he’d had a job to do and he’d done it. Amara was like God. She knew all, at least when she focused (when she wanted to), so Sam — Lucifer — must have been trying to gain power, and Amara couldn’t have that.

“Are we going to go after them?” Dean asked.

“I quite like this little game we have going on, but he’ll be coming after us. Soon,” she told him, grabbing his belt, and leading him down the aisle, up to the white marble altar overlooked by golden statues of angels at prayer. It was a large altar, and Dean felt intimidated looking at it. And he felt the way he always did when he was in a church, or a cathedral, or any religious setting: like he wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Amara, maybe—”

“Yes?”

“I… I don’t feel like I should be here.”

“Hmm, sure, maybe God wouldn’t like us being here, but my brother has his churches, and his rules, and his _ demands_, and he strikes _ fear _ into his followers and calls it love. I say we show him that he’s wrong, that we defile his house.”

Dean looked around at the dead bodies that numbered to at least fourteen, and Sammy had dragged him to enough churches for him to guess who each person was: two priests, three altar servers, an organist, five choir members who all looked to be in middle school, maybe early high school, and… were they... ushers? Yeah, all people getting ready for mass, to learn about and celebrate God, to work for _ Him _ of their own free will, without any payment. And now they were dead.

“I’d say you’ve already done a pretty good job of that.” Amara tugged at his belt, pulling him closer, apparently not yet satisfied. “I want you on that cross behind me,” she told him. 

There was a cross made out of solid gold, hanging above the priest’s chair, and he stared, jaw dropping open. Dean didn’t even think about arguing because of the ecstasy in his body, in his mind, stealing all rational thought, stealing any power to do anything, and soon he was cupping Amara’s face in his hands, kissing her, sucking on her mouth like he felt he was meant to. Her idea was beautiful, and Dean no longer felt as if he didn’t belong. He did belong because she was there.

This was God’s house, but Amara was going to make it hers, and she had killed here and was going to continue marking it by using him.

Dean pulled away, smiling, and because he could, he stuck up his middle finger towards the ceiling high above. Amara looked upon him in confusion.

“What? I’m flippin’ him off. That’s what we’re doing right? Flipping off your brother? Giving him a big ol’ fuck you?”

Amara undid his belt, and he swallowed roughly.

“Is that how you’d say it?”

“I-I guess.”

“Then yes, think of it as a _ fuck you _ to God. He demands devotion with fear, but you, my sweet, I have your love, don’t I?”

“You do.”

“And you’re happy?”

“Blissful.”

“Good.”

She lifted his shirt up, hands running against his skin, and then he was taking it off, tossing it aside to land on a pew, and then Amara was turning him around, slamming him against the altar. She pressed against his chest and then ordered him to stay right there. She left to go to a side-chamber, and when she came back she had loops of white rope.

“Where’d you get those? Are priests kinkier than I thought?” he joked.

“Altar servers wear them as belts,” she answered. “I observed one of the masses a few weeks back. I thought they’d do nicely for your wrists and ankles.”

“And they’re strong enough? I’m big.” He winked at that, hoping Amara would catch his drift, but she didn’t seem to notice. Really, she didn’t seem to understand much about sex. Every time with her was less about exploring, and more about _ being_, about them, and Dean being hers. But she seemed pleasantly surprised with what she could make his body do, and he was thrilled by this idea.

Amara put her hand out, and curled it towards her, and then wrenched it forward. There was a loud crack of nails ripping from stone, and then the cross was lifted over the altar. Dean hurried out of the way to stand by Amara, and then she was resting it back against the polished, white marble. She patted his ass as a signal for him to go on up.

He stood over the cross, arms stretched out, and then she placed the ropes on the floor, tugged his boots off, and wrenched his pants down, leaving him completely naked, bare before God, before her. She was gentle with tying him up, tingles traveling through his skin from even just the mere brush of her fingertips, and it had him inhaling deeply, closing his eyes, and Dean was already raging hard by the time she finished tying his ankles.

Crucifixion. He’d never done this before, not to be tortured, not for sex, not for… was the word sacrilege? Never. From his view of being propped up by the massive altar, he could see the bodies they’d left in the pews, blood still trickling from them in a deep crimson, and colored light streamed in through the stained glass windows, decorating the walls in rainbows. The building around him felt ancient, ethereal, and with all the vast space before him, Dean could believe that he was somewhere else, not on Earth, that this experience was otherworldly, religious in nature.

Amara was by him, running her smooth, powerful hands up his thighs, and already he was shuddering, just that touch too much, and his mouth was open.

“Oh, Amara…”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Feels good.”

“This is what I want for everyone, Dean. Peace, and happiness. No fear, no God, no rules. Just this.”

“Sounds fucking good.” She reached for his hip, and her other hand found his cock. “_Mm_… Feels fucking good, too.”

He yearned to touch her, to reach down, or to even hold onto something, but he couldn’t, and like this it was difficult to breathe, his arms pulling at his chest, but it was a wonderful feeling, seeming to heighten the experience of her hands on him. And then her mouth was on him.

“Did Sam say anything to you?” she asked after sucking him for too short a time.

Dean groaned at the absence of her warm and wet mouth, but he answered, mind hazy, “Wanted me… Wanted me to go with him. _ Oh_, keep doing that.” She was stroking him gently, but with her other hand she was digging her nails into his thigh, the contrast making him dizzy, or maybe that was the lack of oxygen. His wrists were aching, and his ankles were starting to as well, the ropes too tight. “Fuck, Amara…”

“And?”

“I said no.”

“Good.”

She put her mouth on him again, and he forgot how to think, lost himself to fire and ecstasy and burning white. She could take him in all the way and it gave Dean the impression that she was trying to consume him. He throbbed and twitched in her throat, desiring for her to take everything he had, to squeeze him dry, to work him till he had nothing left to give.

Amara stayed still, gazing up at him with her dark eyes, and he could barely breathe with how deep in her he was. She began to hum with contentment, saliva dripping from her perfect lips around the base of his cock and onto his full, tight balls, and Dean growled, tugging at his restraints. She ran her hands up his body, beginning to bob her head up and down, finding his nipples and tugging hard so that he whined.

“I didn’t think this was very you,” he said. “You’re not so interested in how sex works.”

She pulled her mouth off of him and ran a hand down to work at his aching erection.

“Have you read the Bible?”

“Yeah.”

“The church doesn’t like this kind of sex or most kinds of sex.”

“So what the hell, huh?”

She smiled at him, somehow so bright and innocent, and then repeated, “What the hell?”

Amara was attentive to his cock, and his balls, leaving Dean feeling so full and hard that he needed her to take all that she could from him, but she wouldn’t. Not yet. She decided to touch his abdomen and his arms, play with his nipples till they were red and sore, and he was begging for more. Breathing was only getting more challenging, and he was dizzy from it, dizzy from her. This feeling that being with her gave him was heavy, like being tucked in with a multitude of blankets during a cold winter, and he couldn’t move out from under them. It was comforting and perfect, and it made itself known as a warm fuzziness down to every appendage.

She surprised him and licked his pointer finger, and a jolt shot through him, straight through to his neglected cock, making his slit become soaked in precum. He moved his hips — what little he could — and she put a hand on him there, holding him steady. There was a look of curiosity on her face, as if Amara didn’t hate all her brother had created, as if she could be thankful for this one thing, for him, for the things his body could do.

“Where did you feel that?” she asked.

“Started in my finger,” he got out. He was ready to explain more but was unable to finish because of the look she was giving him.

She licked him again, a different finger, with the same result, and he slammed his head back, gritting his teeth.

“And the same?” Her tone suggested she knew exactly where he felt it.

“Mm-hmm.”

She sucked on the ring finger of his right hand now and swirled her tongue around it, one of her hands caressing his face, her thumb finding his ear and being gentle with him.

Dean wanted off this cross. He wanted Amara to just lay him down on the altar and to ride him till he was cumming deep inside of her. Or he even wanted to eat her out. Oh god, yeah, that’d be nice, be held down by her, while her body contorted above him, and his mouth gave her pleasure. Dean hadn’t done it to her yet. He was always on the receiving end, which was nice, but he liked to please, even if him being pleasured did bring his partner enjoyment.

Dean got so wrapped up in his fantasy of tasting her between her legs that he was practically salivating and no longer reacting to what she was doing to him, so she was playing with his nipples again, pinching, and twisting, and tugging, till his cock was twitching and desperately leaking precum and Dean thought he might cum just from this. She had him crying out, fire coursing through his nerves, searing liquid white that splashed into being with each touch, and it brought him closer to the edge. Oh, he just wanted to touch her, wanted to run his hands through her beautiful, wavy brown hair, feel the brush of her cheekbones against his palms, knead her breasts, have her legs around him.

“Amara…”

His head tilted to the side, and his eyes landed on one of the altar servers, a boy of maybe eleven, dirty blond hair, white robe smeared with his death. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, because it didn’t take Dean out of the moment, didn’t steal him from his bliss, and all he could think of was Amara, that soaring he felt in his chest till it hurt, the pounding that said he needed to be with her.

“Soon, Dean.”

“Amara, I want you. I want to make you happy.”

“I will be once we’re done with our work here, once we’re done defiling what God has forced these people to build, like slaves to him.”

Something about her word choice struck him, but he couldn’t place it, and he lazily tilted his head back to her. Her hands ran down him slowly, slowly, and he snarled from how close she was to touching him where he most wanted it. She smiled at his eagerness.

“But you’re no slave, not to him, not to me.”

She took her hands off him and stepped back, and Dean fought, spit dribbling from his mouth with the roar he let out. Amara seemed confused by it, brow lowering.

“Are you not happy?”

“Oh, Amara, please. I just need you.”

“Soon. Have patience.”

She lowered the strap of her dress, and then pulled her arm out of it, exposing the Mark, and it burned in Dean’s vision. The fabric of the black dress lowered, and he drank up the sight of her skin. Amara ran her fingers over the Mark, and down to her breast, circling her nipple, all of Dean’s focus on the wonder of her.

“Oh, so you want more than just pleasure,” she realized. “You want me.”

“Yes.”

She made a violent, clawing motion with her hand and suddenly his restraints were burning, heat boiling his skin, and he fell off the cross before the altar, onto his elbows and his knees, a cry leaving him. Amara approached slowly up the steps, hips swaying enigmatically. She grabbed his jaw in one hand and when they kissed it was like everything in his life had led to that moment, to that perfect feeling, to her warmth and her abrasiveness.

The massive cross was knocked aside with her powers, the top left part of it breaking off in an ear-splitting screech of metal, and Dean was lifted into the air and slammed down onto the altar, a sacrifice for a hungry goddess.

Amara climbed up on top of him, dress still on, but the other strap falling now, and she leaned over. Dean took the opportunity to catch one of her nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pink nub, holding her tightly, and thrusting his hips up as he listened to her moan. Oh god, there was too much fabric, but Amara was taking care of that, hiking up her skirt, and she wasn’t wearing anything else.

She was soaked, and hot and inviting, and Dean bit her when she took him deep into her body, overcome with the pleasure of being encased in tight, silky heat.

In a matter of seconds, they were both moving, hips crashing together, Dean needing to make her feel good, needing her to understand that he was hers, that she could take what she wanted from him, ask anything of him, do anything to him, and the pace she set was brutal. Her nails drew blood and his hands would’ve left bruises on a human.

Sometimes Dean was too overcome in these moments to do much and just let Amara have him, but now he couldn’t stay still. His hands were everywhere: her hips, her legs, her ass, her breasts, her hair. And he tried to do nearly the same with his mouth, sucking all along her chest, her neck, and her face. Soon, he had Amara slowing down, grinding against him hard, and Dean wrapped his arms tight around her to try and hold her steady.

“Amara, I want to do something for you,” he groaned.

She stilled on him, and he sat up, moving her hair aside, brushing his nose against her.

“I’m not my brother, Dean. You have no need to prove your devotion to me, no need to even have devotion.”

“But I do,” he murmured, lips so close to hers he could taste her sweet breath. “I released you. I’m yours.”

She pressed her fingers to his lips and rocked her hips against him, and they breathed in together and breathed out together, voices nearly moans.

“Then this is all I need. Us, together.”

“I want to please you.”

“You are, and I’m pleasing you.”

“No, Amara, _ let me please you_.”

“Dean—”

He cradled her head in his hands, and kissed her, trying to get her to understand. This was something he wanted, not because of what she was, but because he liked the reactions his partners got from his body, liked being put to work every once in a while during sex, liked being used.

When they pulled apart he pressed his forehead against hers, rolling his hips upwards.

“Please, you’ll like it.”

“I like this. I don’t need to be like my brother.”

“You won’t be. Promise. You’ll even get to be in charge like you were earlier. How’s that? Sound good?”

“I do find your body intriguing.”

Dean raised his eyebrows quickly, giving her a knowing look, tongue out between his teeth. “Thought so.”

So Dean talked her through it, and he wasn’t truly comfortable until he was flat on his back, and Amara was straddling his face, dress now thrown in the chair where the priest would sit. She seemed confused until he started his work, tongue finding her wet, hot entrance, and nose rubbing against her clit. Her back arched, and she was leaning way over him, giving Dean an excellent view of her body. She used the edges of the altar to keep herself up. Her body was hungry for this, throbbing, and the taste of her seemed to signal to his body what it wanted, and that was her. He kneaded her ass in his hands as she moaned and shuddered above him. Thinking she’d probably really enjoy stimulation to her clit, Dean tilted his head back, and focused his attention there, lapping at her gently. The little nub of flesh was swollen with need, and she was clearly surprised by the sensation because a cry left her, and she fell forward, grinding down against him, growling. Fuck, that was hot. His cock was twitching and leaking from this, and he wanted to growl back, but he kept up his ministrations.

Amara was crying out atop him, moving with his tongue, using his mouth for her pleasure, slicking his face up with her juices, and the heady scent of her was making him hot, so much so he could barely concentrate, was losing himself in her.

She seemed to get control of this, and grabbed his wrists, holding them down, and then she rode him, and Dean worked his jaw too, sucking, showing her he wanted her, reveling in how wet he was making her. Her back arched, neck craned backwards, breasts thrust forward, hair cascading like a waterfall, and her legs were tensing around him. Dean wouldn’t mind getting crushed by her thighs, and he thought maybe he would. Her voice got louder, and he did his best to focus on her clit, which now had her breaths uneven and trembly, and she had reached her climax, was screaming above him. Curious as to what she might do he placed his tongue at her entrance, could feel it clench and unclench rhythmically, and he desired to be in the middle of all that, yearned for it till he was full beyond hurting. Her voice turned into a shuddering cry, and he thought maybe she would pull away, but she pressed herself against him more forcefully, and Dean obliged, licking his tongue into her, wiggling it around to reach what he could. Her grip on his wrists turned bruising, and his eyes rolled back in his head from it, so aroused he was hypersensitive to every touch.

Then he could sense something from Amara, a frustration of some sort, as if his mouth wasn’t enough for her, and she released him, and swiftly repositioned herself, sliding onto his cock. Dean inhaled, breath shuddering and weak, and then he swore. Amara ground down on him through her orgasm, and then she lay on him, breathing heavy. Without thinking Dean began to caress her body, her back, her ass, though he was _ burning_, full to bursting, cock heavy within her.

“How was that?” he asked softly.

“What was my brother thinking when he designed these bodies?”

“Maybe he was horny,” Dean joked.

“You gotta do that again.”

“Maybe later.”

She sat up on him, rubbing his chest, thumbs flicking his sore nipples. “You’re right.”

“Hey, Amara, what’s say we do a different position?”

She frowned in confusion. “What’s wrong with this?”

Dean laughed, finding her confusion and lack of knowledge despite her fierceness endearing. “Nothing, nothing, but we can switch it up, you know? Make things interesting. Here, let’s try this. How about I get on my hands and knees—”

She smirked at him, and interrupted, “I’m liking this.”

“And you get underneath.”

“Liking it less.”

Still, he went on, explaining that she’d lie back and wrap her legs around him, and be in complete control of his thrusts, and she seemed intrigued by it, enough to try it out. But they didn’t get to it just yet. Amara wasn’t quite finished defiling her brother’s house, and she broke into the supply of wine, his “blood,” and they shared it out of an ornate goblet of gold, lying naked on the altar together. He wasn’t sure how long they had been there, how much longer they had till others would try to get into the cathedral and banging would start up (they’d barricaded all the entrances), but they still had things to do. Dean’s hard-on never went away, which made it so he could barely move, the ache in him driving all the way up into his stomach. It was a relief to be in that position he’d suggested, to be in her, but now Amara was holding back, not letting Dean get what he wanted.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, when he tried thrusting his hips forward, and she pulled away once more.

“Well, yes, you’re in a state of bliss.”

“_Amara_,” he growled, trying to lower himself and thrust into her, but she held him back. “It hurts.”

She frowned at him and then used her legs to pull her hips up to him, burying him in her, making him gasp.

“But it feels good too, doesn’t it?”

“_Oh yes…_” he breathed out.

She kept her thrusts slow and even, unlike the roughness he expected from her, but it was agonizing, and he was shaking above her, sweating.

“I can feel it, can feel you.”

With most girls maybe that’d mean something dirty, like feeling him inside of them, but he knew with her it was deeper than that, more intimate, and it turned him on even more, till he felt like he was boiling from the inside, like he’d hit that sweet spot, and he was about to cum.

Amara made sure he was buried to the hilt, tightened herself around him, urging his body to give in to her, and Dean fell to his forearms, trying to press his hips deeper, moaning.

She caressed him, a hand running through his hair, their foreheads pressed together, and then she went at him hard, relentlessly, her body sinuous and powerful, demanding everything from him, and he gave it, blinding pressure jolting through him over and over again, making him scream, and she was hugging him fiercely, kissing him, holding on for dear life, insides contracting so strongly he wondered if he was going to bruise. He lost himself, continued screaming.

  


Sam was screaming. Lucifer had a fist in him, knuckles rubbing against his swollen prostate, making him so full of pleasure that it bled through him, and leaked out of his cock. The Devil had a hold of the base of him, carefully stroking and caressing, touch gentle, so much so that it seared down into his flesh.

“That’s it, baby.”

Sam still couldn’t believe he called him that on occasion. It was absurd. _ This _ was absurd. But oh, it felt so good that it hurt, and just moaning wasn’t enough, and he wanted to get away from all this burning sensation, but it didn’t stop. He kept rubbing away with his knuckles, infusing him with that pressure that made him feel on the verge of climax, and his fingers were reverent.

He was twisting, and pushing, and pulling, and god, had Castiel’s hands always been that fucking big? At the moment Sam couldn’t even tell if Nick had had bigger hands or if Cas had; this was too much, and his voice kept leaving him, and oh, now he was spitting on him, even though he’d already made sure he was so wet, inside and out. Maybe he just wanted to further prove he was his, or maybe this was part of his reward. All that extra saliva did feel good, so warm, and _ mm_, he was pulling his fist out of him now. Then back in again, knuckles pressing hard, bright fire fusing through to his cock that he was still so gentle with.

Sam was shuddering from it, toes curling, and he was sure he was going to cum, but he remained teetering on the edge, staring down at the blinding light that awaited him, heat blazing up from it, kissing his wanting skin.

He didn’t cool down till he pulled his hand from him, but he gave his cock a few more pumps, and then instructed him to roll over. Sam feared for what would happen next, but he did so, lying in his blood, feeling it get on his torso and pelvis. Lucifer straddled him, hardened erection in between the cheeks of his ass, the thick head pressing against his heated skin. He leaned over, growling as his teeth caught his ear, and Sam groaned from it. Then he was running his hands over his marred back, healing as he went, surprising Sam so much he lifted himself up and turned his head back to look at him.

“What?”

Lucifer shoved him back down to the bed, focused on his task.

“My body, my rules.”

Satan seemed to greatly enjoy having Sam’s ass all healed because then he ran his hands over it, marveling at the bare flesh, all his, and Sam did what he was supposed to and lifted himself up into it, letting himself get lost to it.

“Thank you,” he breathed, knowing what was expected of him.

He was spanked, and after he jumped at the sting of pain, he thanked him again.

“Louder.”

“Thank you!”

He spanked him and spanked him till Sam was crying out and breathless, and his ass was burning and sore, but his body knew what this meant, and he was hungry for more touches, more of him, even if he didn’t want any of this. It was what he was used to. He gave in some more, which was easy with the high running through him, and he leaned into the hands that ran up and down his back, let out a pleased “mm” at the nails that scraped his flesh, and then Lucifer was getting off of him to have him on his back once more, having Sam’s legs up against his shoulders, and when he leaned over he practically bent him in half.

The Devil was more than ready to fuck him, so hard he felt like he might bruise him just from pressing against his thigh. Then he was holding himself, rubbing his thick head over and over his rim, teasing, showing just how large he was, and in this position, there was nowhere for Sam to go.

Cas, well, Cas was bigger than Nick, thicker, maybe a bit longer. But it was the thickness that excited him just as it terrified him. He felt him, too much of him, pressing against his throbbing rim, making Sam shudder, and then he was pushing into him, nails scraping down his body as he did so, purposefully catching on his nipples.

Sam arched into him, grunting at the pressure and the feeling of being stretched. Satan went at him slowly as he sometimes did, seemingly more focused on his reward now than on the mere act of having him. It let Sam feel the intensity of each stroke, let himself relax and open up to him, and when he hit his prostate and buried deeper, he leaned his head back, grabbing onto his biceps.

“_Fuck,_” he breathed.

“Good, huh?”

Lucifer pressed right up against him, fully sheathing in him now, and he grabbed his hips, pulling them forward, and making him ache with how full he was, but ecstasy was burning through him like white light, made even more poignant by his high.

“Mm-hmm,” he responded, knowing he probably had to answer.

Lucifer leaned down, arms on either side of Sam’s head, and then he was sucking on his ear, his hips moving again, keeping himself deep, and Sam felt sweet pulses of bliss from every movement.

“Probably regret... fighting me all those times, huh?” he grunted out, mouth still on him, hungry, and warm, tingles somehow going from Sam’s ear all the way down to his pelvis. “Or maybe you were just... egging me on, knowing I like a good fight. Fighting always makes me hard, you know? You’re a fighter. You get it.”

Sam did not get it, but he wasn’t going to tell him that, and he was too busy having a hard time breathing as his thrusts started getting harder. Oh _ god_, he felt so good in him: thick, and full of want, and he was driving into him at just the right angle, continuously brushing against his swollen prostate.

It got to a point where it felt like he was trying to beat him with his cock, and Sam was straining against him, moaning, bright pleasure throbbing all the way up into his stomach until he couldn’t think of anything besides it, and then Lucifer’s mouth was on him, licking, sucking, very interested in his neck, and oh, he felt like he was going to cum. When he pulled his mouth away, he replaced it with his hand, but he didn’t strangle him as he had so many times before. It was commanding, a _ stay down_, and the pleasure it sent through Sam was unexpected.

The Devil was growling at him, head tilted up and back as he stared down at him, teeth bared. Sam grunted, feeling his voice almost go to a higher register, when he slowed the pace and then slammed into him as hard as he could, all of his thickness filling him and spreading him open, and feeling so good it hurt.

“See, Sam, you work with me, you get rewarded.”

And then he slammed into him again, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for breath even though he wasn’t being strangled. How could he even breathe when he was so full, so full of _ him_, so full of blood, so full of want, till he was thick, and aching, and precum was coating the head of his cock? Pleasure filled him, taking him up, even as with each thrust his ass and thighs grew sore from the brutality of it.

Eventually, Lucifer stilled in him, breathing hard above him, and he trailed his hand down to his chest, Sam mentally begging for his nipples to be touched. He did that thing he knew Sam liked, swirling his finger around and around, making the circles tighter and tighter, and then he leaned down to lick and suck, nip with his teeth. Fire twanged through his body from it, and he breathed out hard, voice in his breath. Lucifer left his body, letting his legs fall back down to the bed, but now he was focused on what he could do with his mouth.

God, he wanted him back in him or wanted a hand on him so he could cum. He did what he knew he wasn’t supposed to, and tried reaching down in between his legs, and Lucifer growled, grabbing his wrist to pin it up by his head.

“No.”

Sam was desperate now, high, and lost in it all, and he lifted himself up against him, grinding, even going so far as to whimper, knowing that he could be enticing when he wanted.

Lucifer smiled when he realized what he was doing, but he let him keep up with it, and then Sam was grabbing him, pulling him down to kiss him, wrapping a leg around him. Everything in him was begging for release, begging for more, more everything, and any touch he could get was better than nothing. The Devil leaned into it, a pleased rumble coming from his chest, and then he used his hand to make sure their cocks were together, and he went at him, making Sam feel searing pressure in his pelvis as he felt empty inside. Teeth pulled at his bottom lip, and then he sucked. 

Their mouths were nearly together now as he breathed, “How else you wanna get fucked? Want to do it in the throne room, make my other dog jealous? I could give you more blood, get a demon in here, let you drink from them as I fuck you.”

Sam moaned at the thought, panting hard, tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip, and the Devil let out a pleased sound, voice deep and gravelly.

“Yeah, you like that last idea? Yeah? You want some more blood, baby?”

“Mm…”

Lucifer kissed him once more, tongue invading his mouth, and then he was leaving him, some of Sam’s blood on his skin, completely naked, and not at all ashamed that he was hard.

“Be right back,” he promised, winking. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The instant he left the room, Sam started touching himself, hot and desperate, not caring that he could get in trouble for it. Need was pulsing within him, a fiery liquid plea that dripped out of him, slicking him up some more. Sam wasn’t sure if he was trying to reach his end, or if he was just wanting, but the thought of blood made him feel close to bursting, balls tight and heavy against his body.

Lucifer entered the room to the sound of skin on skin, Sam too desperate to stop working himself, and the demon he’d brought with him he held by the neck. The Devil’s eyes shone at seeing him in such a state, said nothing of it, and threw the demon — another man — onto the bed beside him, and he handed Sam a knife.

The demon didn’t scream as Sam slit his throat, and in fact, he had seemed almost willing to partake in this, like it was an honor to give to the Prince of Darkness and his pet. He was on him in an instant, tongue out, sucking up what he could — so hot and sweet, the high blazing through his body. He didn’t mind at all as Lucifer got behind him and repositioned his legs, getting on him.

“There we go, Sammy. That’s it.”

The demon lay there, not even struggling, possibly held down by Lucifer’s powers, as he drank, and Sam was moaning, eyes rolling back in his head, and then fingers were at his rim, teasing, like he had to reacquaint himself with him in the couple minutes he’d been gone. They were scissoring within him, and Sam felt himself become compliant, back arching, ass lifting.

Another hand was in his hair now, making him moan even more. Thirsty, Sam dug his tongue into the wound, loving the red coating him inside and out, needing more of it.

And then Lucifer was back in him again, riding him hard, stroking his body as Sam drank, and he could barely hold himself up, limbs shaking, covered in sweat, face a bloody mess, the high threatening to break his mind.

Oh god, if someone could die from feeling too much pleasure, it’s how he wanted to go, like this: getting fucked, drinking blood.

Sam bit the demon, tearing through an artery with his teeth, feeling it wet and pulsating. Blood splashed onto his face as he felt fire rage in him till it became soreness, Lucifer pumping his cock with a grip that threatened to bruise. Then he was overcome by everything, drowning in it, sensation bursting through him in brilliant spurts of white. His body hungrily contracted around the Devil, who was still driving into him, and Sam groaned from deep in his chest, sucking up as much crimson nectar as he could.

Lucifer thankfully pulled out of him, let him fall to the bed, cradle the demon in his arms, and drink, drink till his head was spinning, and everything in him was light and on fire. He ran his hand over his back, caressing, the stimulation hurting after the power of his orgasm, and his voice left in uneven, growling breaths.

It wasn’t long before he was playing with his ass again, hand reaching under him to feel him hardening once more. Sam had hardly had a refractory period before the Devil, but now it was almost non-existent, and he was ready to go again in a minute or two, lifting himself up and back into him, as the Devil purred his name. He entered him, ready to fuck him into another completion.

Sam drank as he was fucked, the Dark Prince’s body undulating with fervor, and he became the blood, the demon, Lucifer’s perfect slave and vessel, forgetting who he was, forgetting his own wants and desires, no longer existing as an entity that solely belonged to himself. The Devil was in him. The blood was in him. Sam Winchester was gone. He was just this being, one with darkness, deriving the peak of pleasure from these sinful acts. He even forgot he had a brother, forgot that he didn’t want this.

He didn’t.

But that was no longer his choice to make anymore.

He was Lucifer’s perfect vessel, full of him till he was cumming once again, the fallen archangel cumming with him, filling him up with his pleasantly burning seed.

When it was over, Sam collapsed, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, all of him tingling and buzzing and screaming with euphoria.

The demon was dead now (Lucifer had killed him), and was shoved off the bed, and the Devil was over him, dark hair mussed, caressing his worn, sensitized body, tongue lapping up the blood on his face, so perfectly warm against his lips.

This was his reward, and much, much later he would become numb from it.

If he was good, he was raped, and if he was bad, he was raped even harder.

But right now he didn’t even know the word _ rape _ existed and he drifted on waves of red.

  


The cathedral had been wonderful, but Dean and Amara had had to leave before the police had broken through the doors. The authorities had already been called upon the realization that there was no getting into the building. The last thing Dean had heard as he pulled his jacket on and Amara grabbed him was a mother yelling, “My boy is in there!”

Then he was back at the hotel like nothing had ever happened. But he was still buzzing, and he was all sweaty.

Amara didn’t need to shower, but he thought he’d ask, even trying to be more human with her: “Babe, wanna shower?”

She frowned at him. “Babe?”

“Yeah.”

“_My boy is in there!_”

That childish, angelic face, the dirty-blonde hair, the death in his eyes, and Dean had helped kill him, had stabbed him through the throat while Amara watched. And he’d stared at his dead body while she pleasured him on the cross in front of God.

“_My boy is in there!_”

He shook his head, and put the heel of his palm to it, turning away from her. It ached, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, black spots in his vision. What was happening? A boy didn’t matter.

He’d had to do it. For Amara. All for Amara.

He loved Amara.

They were one, meant to be. He’d released her.

“Dean, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. “Um… Forget the shower, I’ll just be on my own.”

She grabbed him, and he inhaled deeply, the headache and black spots subsiding, and she pulled him down for a deep kiss. Her tongue was in his mouth and he wanted to fill himself up with her. After she sucked on his bottom lip for a bit she pulled away.

“Better?” she asked.

Dean smiled at her, forgetting his troubles for now.

“Yeah, better.”

“Now, Dean, I need to eat.”

So they’d be having some people over, and that meant he’d have to do clean-up. He couldn’t sigh like he wanted to though. It was Amara, and how she needed to eat didn’t frighten him. It intrigued him, made him happy. She was bringing bliss to the people she consumed by having them join her.

“Alright, well, you eat as much as you want,” he told her, cupping her cheeks in his hands, watching a radiant smile spread across her face. “We can be together after.”

They kissed once more, and then Dean went to go shower.

The bathroom in the hotel was nice, though he hardly noticed all the white and aquamarine and the gold tile now, just went through everything in a haze. It was always a haze. A wonderful, wonderful haze. But confusion took him over once he left her presence.

The altar boy.

Sam.

He stripped himself of his clothes, staring at all the black, feeling it between his fingers, not recognizing it. He stared at his face in the mirror, at his eyes, seeing how big his pupils were. That meant something, but what it meant he couldn’t remember.

Something bad?

No, surely something good.

Amara was wonderful, perfect, his everything.

His bliss.

When Dean was in the shower he just stood there, not washing up, just letting the water run over his shoulders. He somehow felt empty and alive all at once. She was near, but… Sam.

He… He had a brother.

He’d known that.

He had.

But seeing him.

It was different.

His brother was a killer. But so was Dean. He killed for who he loved, and Sam… Sam killed for…”

“_Lucifer sent me. He’s gonna… He’s gonna hurt me._”

No, why was Dean thinking about this? He was happy, he was blissful, he was with Amara. The bunker had burned down, his home was gone, his old life was over.

He was with Her.

_ He was happy. _

There was nothing that could be done.

“_Come with me._”

“_I can’t._”

“_What do you mean you can’t? _”

“_I won’t._”

Dean leaned his head back, letting the water burn his face, give him that panicked feeling like he might be drowning as it flooded over his closed eyes, and covered his nose so he couldn’t breathe.

“_Bye, Sam._”

“_Dean! _”

He held himself under the water like that till he needed to take in air, and then he leaned forward, gasping, hand against the shower wall, wiping his face, droplets falling off of him, and plashing into the tub.

“_Come with me._”

Dean heard the first scream come through the bathroom door.

A tear fell.

Bliss radiated out from his chest, but still, he cried.

  


After his shower, there were the bodies to take care of. He’d have to wait till night to dispose of them properly through a system that he’d used plenty of times by now, but at the moment he just wrapped them in trash bags and stored them in the tub, hoping the blood wouldn’t make too much of a mess for him to clean. If it did he had plenty of experience with that, but he’d had a long day.

Amara was content, sitting on the couch by one of the windows overlooking the city, and Dean joined her.

“Dean, I’ve been thinking,” Amara began, once they were sitting, her back against his chest, their fingers intertwined. “I should find your brother.”

“H-how come?”

“For you. For us,” she responded, turning to him now, earnest in her motions, and her seemingly innocent intent was even held in her eyes. “Lucifer has him. My nephew is not kind, and if I had Sam he could be blissful. But Lucifer’s coming. It was foolish of me to send you out there. Lucifer was playing me, testing me, seeing if I’d take the bait — the needless, distracting deaths your brother was going to cause. It’s why I sent you out, but that just confirmed where I was. He’ll have an army with him when he comes. Demons, lots of them.”

“And Sam?”

“Sam too.”

“You saw this?”

“I saw enough.”

“But Sam, you uh… If you got him…” Dean began, lowering his eyebrows as he thought, leaning forward, deciding to look at the floor for a bit before facing her. “You um… You wouldn’t be fucking him, would you?”

Amara’s answer caught Dean so off guard he stopped breathing for a few seconds and stared deep into her eyes, seeing only darkness there: “I’m going to consume his soul so that he’ll be part of me.”

“Amara,” Dean got out. “You...”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Why?”

“You’ll be with him when you’re with me.”

Dean almost wanted to shake his head, almost wanted to frown, but Amara caressed the inner part of his wrist and he found that he couldn’t, and he started breathing heavy, his pulse speeding up, blood pressure rising.

She leaned in and sucked on his earlobe, undoing the buckle on his belt, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, hand reaching in now. Dean just held onto her, incapable of functioning.

“Or, if you don’t like that, there’s another way we can weaken Lucifer. He’ll be here by nightfall.”

Fear wanted to strike through Dean.

Lucifer.

The Devil.

But her hand felt so good on him, so attentive.

“I need my warrior, so you have to do this thing for me if you won’t let me consume him. It’ll turn the tide of the battle. It’ll save me, and we can be one, I can bring bliss to this universe.”

“I’ll do anything,” Dean breathed, feeling his words bind him to her, his intent, his connection to her stronger than it had ever been.

Amara gripped him tight, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, her touch felt electrifying, burning, _ perfect. _

“Kill Sam.”

  


Lucifer healed Sam after he finished giving him his reward, telling him he needed him ready for battle. So he forced down some food, and now he was dressed: black jeans, white shirt, and an M-65 camo field jacket, with plenty of weapons on his belt and strapped to his thighs. He had an angel blade, the demon-killing knife, push daggers, his machete, a Ka-Bar US army knife, and his Colt pistol with plenty of rounds for reloading. His shotgun was against Lucifer’s throne for him to later throw over his shoulder. Altogether it’d be about sixteen extra pounds, but he could easily handle that. What worried him was that it wouldn’t be enough against Amara. Earlier in the day a few of Lucifer’s demons had found various Hands of God, some that would obliterate, or turn people into pillars of salt, but Sam feared that he wouldn’t make it out of this battle alive.

He hadn’t realized his orders for going into battle would come so soon after he’d found Amara’s location, but he supposed it made sense. She could move at any moment, go to anywhere in the world. She could even leave the planet if she felt like it, possibly even taking Dean with her, and somehow using her powers to help him survive.

So now Sam stood in the throne room, to the right of the throne and back, hands clasped before him, trying to keep his shoulders up and back, but all he wanted to do was hunch in on himself, even as red coursed through him, singing, burning pleasantly. Crowley was in his kennel for this, not granted a high enough honor to be let out, and the highest demons, generals, had been assembled to now receive orders.

It was frightening.

They weren’t just going to fight, weren’t going in to take out Amara.

They were going in to destroy, making Sam’s shooting earlier in the day look like nothing.

Their attack was going to appear to be an act of terrorism, one of the highest scale, taking out an entire city, and killing hundreds of thousands.

Sam had to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.

He knew he had to listen, that he was involved in the plans, and finally, he heard his orders, towards the end:

“Sam will track down Dean Winchester, and he will eliminate him.”

Lucifer turned, used the lips of his friend to smile, showed his teeth, blue eyes glimmering with malice, red glinting deep in them, dark hair too immaculate and perfect and all of him somehow _ wrong _ , and Sam stared hard, unable to breathe, too much saliva building up in his mouth. There were words in that gaze: _ Do it, or I rape you. Do it, or I tear you apart. Do it, or you don’t get blood. Do it, or I will make you regret it. DO IT. _

“Sammy, you have the skills to kill Dean, right?”

The skills? God, he was sure he did. He’d trained with his brother almost his entire life, knew his weaknesses, his strengths, what kind of hits Dean would try to land, what weapons and tactics he favored, which ones he didn’t, but—

Sam swallowed roughly, a tear trailing down his cheek.

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

Lucifer turned away from him now, promptly ignoring him.

“Sam will kill Dean, taking out one of Amara’s higher-ups, and then—”

Sam zoned out.

There’d be no running away from this, no running away with his brother.

He was a slave.

And he was alone.

And Dean wasn’t here.

And he was going to kill him.

  


The troops were sent out, one by one, to wait for Lucifer’s orders around Boston, even having some conveniently placed at some of the rivers, harbors, and bays. He wasn’t messing around, ready to take on God’s sister or lose.

Lucifer had left him alone, seemingly having decided that the rape earlier had been a sufficient goodbye in case things went wrong. Sam was alone, in one of the dungeons, sweating, hands shaking, tears still threatening to fall, stomach tightening and tightening around a ball of painful fear in him.

  


Dean said little after he’d been given his order. He had to do it. There was no way around it. Amara ate, and she ate, claiming she needed to be stronger.

The sky darkened.

And the demons came.

Dean couldn’t see them, but Amara said she felt them.

He prepared his weapons, his Colt pistol that matched Sammy’s except for the designs on the barrel, his machete, an angel blade, and a Ka-Bar US army knife. He felt like he was going in naked, but Amara didn’t want him going into much of the battle, just wanted him to take out Sam.

Dean could do that.

He could kill his brother.

For Amara, he’d do anything.

She took him to the top of the building, clouds roiling in the sky, lightning striking as a violent blue, thunder sounding like divine drums of war.

Amara looked out all around, her hands out, sensing, and Dean held onto her forearm gently, not afraid of falling off the building, but just needing to touch her.

Eventually, she informed him, “We’re surrounded.”

  


Blood was pounding and pounding and _ pounding_, and Sam paced, holding his hands to his ears. He wanted more blood, he needed more blood.

No, Lucifer had given him plenty; he didn’t need more.

But god, it was scraping through his nerves, trickling through his system, dripping, pouring, _ raging_, and Sam ended up sitting on the floor, his head back against the wall, shotgun beside him.

He found himself smiling despite the fear in his stomach. God, it felt like someone was caressing him now, but inside, someone with wonderful, wonderful hands, someone perfect. He didn’t always feel like this on the blood, but in rare moments he did when he had a lot and after waiting for just the right moment.

Sam moaned, not even worrying if Lucifer with his devilish powers could hear and would come down to have some fun before the battle.

A person was sitting beside him, someone familiar, and all was too quiet, deathly so: the calm before the storm.

The person spoke, his brother, tension laying thick in the air and laced in his voice: “Sammy, you know what you gotta do, right?”

Sam looked over at Dean. He wasn’t dressed in black like he had been when he’d seen him, but in the clothes he used to wear around the bunker, a solid color of flannel — this one a blood-red — a black t-shirt, and blue jeans. To Sam’s surprise, he wore the amulet that Sam had hidden on him, and it glowed faintly, a pure light like it was touched by a star.

“No, Dean. I can’t.”

“You gotta protect yourself. It’s okay.”

“How can you—”

“Take care of Sammy. That’s the job.”

Sam stared hard at him now, tried to see any falseness in him, see how unreal he was, but this was Dean, conjured up from his own mind, so he was strong, sturdy. “What about me?” he asked, voice cracking, tears building in his eyes. He blinked them away so he could properly see him, letting them roll down his cheeks. “What about how I look up to you, how I’ve been protecting you, trying my best to-to keep you safe?” 

Sam frowned, lips quivering as he held in a sob, remembering how high Dean had looked when he’d seen him again, remembering the, “_I won’t._”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and went on, “God, I failed.”

“Look at me, look at you. _ I’ve _ failed! You’re broken.”

Sam shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Don’t you dare say that to me.”

“What, he orders you to kill me, and you’re thinking about it.”

“He’s going to rape me.”

“He already rapes you.”

“You want a turn?!” Sam asked, not sure where the words came from, feeling black poison fill up his lungs after he spoke them, and he turned away, a sob leaving him, filled with hurt and shame.

“Sammy…”

“Go.”

“Sammy, I’m sorry.”

“Go!”

His brother didn’t leave him.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong. You have to kill me. Sam, kill me.”

And then he was gone, “_Sam, kill me_” echoing in his mind.

Sam lay there moaning from the effects of his high, waiting for the inevitable, for Lucifer to find him, and he did, and he lowered his jeans.

  


The sky continued to darken, lightning striking in the northeast out over the ocean, and Dean was pacing atop the building, looking out at the skyline, imagining he could see the demons surrounding them.

“Why hasn’t it started yet?” he asked Amara, pre-battle anxiety making him grumpy.

“It will soon.”

“Soon could be a hundred years for you,” he shot back.

Amara grabbed him, staring deep into his eyes, and he was calming. “Dean, it’s alright. We’re here together. You’ll set out and accomplish what you have to, and then you will return to me.”

Dean brushed her hair aside, admitting, “I don’t like leaving you.”

“I’ll be here. Lucifer won’t get me.”

“Amara, I… I think I love Sam,” he said. “Why am I killing him?”

“Because he keeps Lucifer going. I’ve seen it, how the two of them work. Your brother is Lucifer’s. Without him, my nephew will be distraught. He’ll have little to no power, and we won’t have an enemy anymore. We can just _ be _. That’s part of my plan, Dean. To be with you, to destroy everything, to get rid of what my brother has created. He created Lucifer, he created Sam, he created all this!”

Dean took a step back, feeling unsafe.

“He created me.”

“You’re different.”

“How? How am I different?”

She came forward, taking his hands. “You released me. You _ bore _ the Mark. You’re part of me, Dean. You belong to me now, not him, not God, or whatever he wishes to call himself. My brother is a fool. My nephew is a fool. And Sam is a piece that has to be taken out. For us.” Amara squeezed his hands, something very human, and it startled Dean. Then she told him, “You can be with him before the end.”

Dean jumped, pulling Amara close to him, shielding her and dropping down to the building when a pillar of pure, white light burst up from the ground near a cathedral he spotted northwest and a few blocks from them.

“The demons are moving.”

Dean looked at Amara, wide-eyed.

The pillar of light still shot through the air, up into the clouds, the energy destroying, and where it touched him, it singed and blew his hair and clothes back. Somehow he knew it was Lucifer. Everything in him dropped to his feet, fear taking hold of him.

So it had begun.


	3. PART THREE

LUCIFER HAD KISSED SAM, BITING HIS LIP, DRAWING BLOOD, AND THEN HE’D made sure he got into the Impala before he brought him to I-93. The Devil had explained that he suspected Amara was in the northern part of Boston, so all Sam had to do was drive south from where he’d left him with a squadron of demons, and they’d find them, and Lucifer would wage war upon God’s sister.

I-93 was already in chaos. Demons had taken over, killing drivers left and right, destroying cars, not just where it suited them, but strategically, making a wall of the vehicles, and setting them on fire. Behind Sam was a towering structure of crushed metal and rubber, and shattered glass littered the pavement. Blood and bodies and organs lay everywhere: heads, eyes, intestines, arms, part of someone’s spine, and he was sure he saw a foot with an Adidas shoe still on it lying in front of him. And the road hadn’t cleared. There were too many people. Accidents had been caused with some trying to flee, and others had simply abandoned their cars, alarms going off, the noise incomprehensibly loud, the screams even louder, people running, demons killing, and possessing, smashing the bodies against glass, or picking up debris and stabbing them through with it, and then moving on to possess other helpless victims and doing the same, before going back to their original vessels. Sam was trapped in the carnage, the stench unimaginable ― burning rubber, spilled guts, blood, incontinence… Nausea curled his stomach, his head spinning, and he was blinded by the smoke in the air, the sheer violence and gore before him, the mess of terror, all the destruction the demons had wrought.

They assembled around the Impala, ready to clear a path for him, to shove the cars that weren’t moving out of the way, to kill even more, to get him to Dean.

Sam took in a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself.

It didn’t work.

He opened the door and puked all over the road, most of it blood. He was shaking, sweat rolling down his face and neck, getting soaked up by his shirt, and feeling it run into his jeans. He heaved again.

He had to do this. He had to.

Lucifer would rape him.

He’d rape him, he’d rape him, he’d rape him.

His body against his, Castiel’s body in him. So thick, so hard.

Disgusting. Sam was disgusting.

There was rot in his soul.

Demons snickered, and Sam took in deep breaths, pulling himself together.

He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, pulled himself up, realized he’d stepped in a puddle of blood mixed with gasoline, tried to let it go, and then righted himself in the driver’s seat.

He sniffled; his nose had been running, eyes watering.

Sam growled at himself, angry at his weakness, and he stared down the bloody violence, the horrors before him, the light that shone in the sky southwest of him now. 

“_Sammy, you know what you gotta do, right?_”

It was time. Time for this to end, to kill Dean, to save himself.

“_Sam, kill me._”

“Let’s go.”

Sam put the Impala into drive, stepped on the gas, and the demons marched forward, all hell breaking loose as they began clearing the cars before him, and he made his way down I-93.

  


Sirens wailed. Already emergency responders were reacting to the chaos that was starting to ensue. Dean didn’t know what was happening on the edges of the city, but he could see smoke that stood out against the lightning that was striking in the sky every once in a while, billowing up like a great smog from Hell.

“Amara, what do I do?” he asked. He nodded over to where the great light had come from. “Do I go there?”

Amara was holding her head in her hands, seemingly overwhelmed by all that was going on, and it surprised Dean.

“Dean, we’re surrounded. I… I don’t know.”

He held her, assuring, “It’s okay. I’ll go there. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

And then he kissed her forehead and was rushing off, heading towards where he’d seen the light.

Lucifer. He knew it was Lucifer, and where there was Lucifer, there was Sam. He could run there, but it was difficult. Even at night, the streets were crowded. People were now stopping, panicked, trying to figure out what was going on, and they were close to the outer edges of the city. Dean could hear delighted, demonic screaming approaching, and more human screaming had started up, turning animalistic as they died. Still, he ran.

When he got to the cathedral, the roof was falling in. It was a different one than he’d been in earlier, and he was almost impressed with the destruction though Amara hadn’t caused it. He stopped dead when he saw who was walking from the flames and down the front steps.

_ Castiel. _

No, no, no.

_ Not Cas. Not Cas. _

Everything in him stopped, and he wanted to run to him, wanted to hold him, wanted to… wanted to kiss him.

He was even dressed like Cas: the dark suit, blue tie, the tan overcoat, the wind stirred up by the storm and the fire showing the plaid lining underneath.

Dean wanted him.

His traitorous thoughts had him shaking, almost falling to his knees, but Dean drew his angel blade.

Cas smiled, and it wasn’t Cas.

It was the Devil.

“Where’s Sam?!” Dean cried.

“Hello, Dean,” the Devil tried pulling, even lowering his voice, approaching him.

Dean’s grip began to falter.

Dean shook his head, tears building up in his eyes.

“No, don’t you dare! _ Don’t you dare! _Get out of him, you son of a bitch!”

“That’s not what this fight is about, Dean, and you know it.” Still, he was talking with Cas’ voice — low, rumbly — and it touched a raw nerve in him, sending him tumbling to the ground. Dean couldn’t think outside of this, couldn’t process the falling, burning cathedral before him, or the demons moving into the city, killing as they went, humans screaming and running, buildings getting destroyed with powers of telekinesis. The Devil was close now and put a hand under his chin. “Dean, you’re Amara’s now. And Castiel is mine. But perhaps I can give you a taste before the end. He has been rather… annoying about it, all these fantasies in his head.”

Lucifer grabbed Dean by his neck, lifting him up, and he was utterly helpless, mouth open, as their lips came together. Dean didn’t know why he kissed back. These weren’t Amara’s lips. They were Castiel’s, now owned by Lucifer. But he found himself moaning into it as shrieks and wails and howls of terror and pain sounded around him, as crashes and cracks and the ripping apart of bodies could be heard. He held him close, breathed into it, and let him move his hand up to his jaw, and tilt his head back, put his tongue in his mouth. Cas — the Devil — (Dean didn’t know anymore) put a hand to his back, and brought him forward, hips pressing hard against him, and Dean did the same, body gyrating, grinding. With Amara, he’d grown used to sex, and he could tell that the body against his was now very fond of it because he reacted in kind, arching him back so that he almost hurt. He went after his mouth till he was overwhelmed by it, nearly incoherent with how aroused he was, and then he was biting.

_ Come on, Cas. Come on, come on, come on, _ he chanted in his head. _ Break free. _

Lucifer eventually pulled back, eyes red, not the eyes of his friend. And Dean stabbed him in the chest.

The Devil grabbed him, bodily, and slammed him down against the concrete. Dean just managed to save his head from smacking against it, but it strained his neck, heavy twangs of pain going through it down into his shoulders and collarbone, and then he heard sirens, growing louder and louder.

Lucifer had a foot on Dean’s chest, crushing.

Shooting began, and Lucifer had his hand up, stopping some of the bullets, but not all of them, and Dean tried ducking where he could, but he was exposed, out in the middle of the road.

He pulled out his pistol, shot the Devil in the ankle, which made a scream issue forth from him, and then he rolled backwards and took cover behind a Subaru Forester.

Lucifer had Dean’s angel blade now, so the police yelled, “Drop your weapon!”

He threw it, and Dean heard it strike one of them in the neck, gurgled choking meeting his ears, and he winced. Dean got another shot in at his kneecap, but it didn’t faze him. He just bled, and took a step forward, trying to get out of his range.

“Drop your weapon!”

And now they were referring to Dean.

If he dropped his weapon he’d be helpless against the Devil. He couldn’t do it.

“Get out of here!” Dean cried. “He’s gonna kill you!”

“Drop your weapon!”

“He’s gonna kill you!”

“_Drop your weapon!_”

“_He’s gonna kill you!_”

Shooting started up again for a mere second, Dean heard many loud snaps, like the cracks of bones as if someone had stepped on skeletons littered about the ground, and then there were thuds as bodies dropped.

Lucifer came and slammed him against the hood of the car.

“Come on, I don’t get a thank you?”

He punched him in the face.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked, trying to get back on track.

“Aw, you want to save your brother?”

Dean said nothing, knowing if he told this fallen archangel his true purpose he’d stop having his fun and kill him.

“Yeah, wanna give him a big hug,” Dean growled out.

He received another punch in the face for that, and then he was thrown off the car, nose slamming against the ground, and blood flowed down his face. Dean rolled onto his side, and Lucifer kicked him in the stomach.

“Tell Auntie Amara I said hi.”

The Devil marched away, more demons following, a sea of black overtaking Dean, but he was alive, free to go back to his master… for now.

  


Sam was still on I-93, breathing hard, sweating, trying his best to not puke again. The carnage continued to grow the farther they went into the city and the more people there were, and he could see the work the other generals had done — tearing down buildings, setting fires, and one had seemingly decided to start putting emergency vehicles on the tops of buildings, showing humanity how hopeless they were. The demons were ruthless, and he wanted to scream at them, wanted to cry. Words were in his head, on his lips, _ Stop! Stop! Can’t you see what you’re doing? _

But of course they could. They wanted to do this. They enjoyed this. They were creatures of Hell.

This was what they did.

This was what they were prepared for.

Death, destruction.

Ruin.

But Sam was human.

They were stopped by a police blockade, and the Impala took its first bit of damage.

“Get down!” a demon yelled, a blond-haired man, who’d been glancing at him like he wanted something every once in a while. Sam had snarled at him because he wanted something too, and it was his blood.

Sam wasn’t too surprised by the police reaction time now that the city was falling apart.

It was slow-going on the I-93 for him. Demons could run without getting tired out, but they couldn’t keep up with a car like this, so he’d had to keep it slow for them, and police were going to catch on to where the worst danger was eventually.

Orders were being shouted out, guns drawn, flashing lights blocking the road, lightning striking through the sky, thunder sounding from above and rattling through him, and the gunshots began. Sam ducked down, the window taking damage, bullets raking through the Impala, and he listened for the hiss of air to see if any had hit one of her tires. All of them sounded like misses.

Sam raised his head ever so slightly to watch, and he saw that some of the demons were fighting back, some of them taking the bullets and still walking forward, jumping over the cars of the blockade and shoving fists through the chests of the police officers fighting bravely till the end. Others simply possessed them, and put the gun under their chin and pulled the trigger, or shot the officer standing next to them. In a matter of minutes, the officers were all dead.

Sam was shaking, on the verge of throwing up again.

_ No, no, no, no, no. _

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.

He wasn’t a demon. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t!

He couldn’t keep up with this. Couldn’t keep doing this, letting this happen, just stand by as they killed.

But then his mind nearly shut down, turned black with all that Lucifer did to him and would do to him, and he lay there, dizzy, body tingly, everything fuzzy, shaking, unable to breathe.

The demons were yelling at him, taunting him, shouting, kicking the Impala, and Sam couldn’t breathe, could barely see, couldn’t get up. He hoped he wasn’t going to throw up again because he didn’t have the strength to drag himself from the car and he didn’t want to ruin her more than she already was.

_ Get to Dean, _ he told himself. _ Get to Dean. _

His face was wet. Tears.

So much death.

So much.

How could he do it?

How could he keep going on?

He feared this had only just started.

Sam wasn’t going to survive.

Somehow, he just knew it.

The night would kill him.

“Get up!”

“What, can’t handle death, you little bitch?!”

“Look, such a baby!”

“Aw, the Dark Prince’s Pet is a fucking little bitch!”

“You wanna be like one of us, Pet? Then get up!”

The insults didn’t stop, growing worse and worse, and more colorful, turning into threats. Sam screamed, covering his ears, and all the demons stilled, backs arched as if they were held in a vise.

Sam got control of his breathing, and he picked himself up.

He stepped out of the Impala, the door creaking.

“You listen to me,” he told them, fear somehow lending strength to his voice, though he could hear it bleeding with weakness. “I’m not one of you. And yeah, I am His slave, but I’m not yours. I’m here to do a job tonight: kill my brother, and you’re here to clear a path for me. So clear a path before I decide to find someone else to do it!”

Sam released them, and they all instantly returned to work, not looking at him, and Sam sat in the Impala, tears streaking his face, not sparing them even a glance, feeling worse than sin, fearing for his life, his soul, and even his body.

What horrors would be left of this night?

  


Dean had made it back to Amara.

She seemed more herself now, even with the destruction raging around her.

“Amara, it’s Lucifer,” Dean said, letting her grab him, examine him, worry about the blood. “I think he’s coming here.”

“Then let him come.” Now she started brushing the blood off as best as she could with her hands. “Did he hurt you too badly?”

He shook his head. “No, but I stabbed him, got a few shots in. Think he’s pissed.” Dean avoided her gaze.

“You’re not telling me something.”

Already the guilt was washing away, bliss taking its place, and Dean told her, compelled by her wonder and beauty, and the rightness he felt from being with her, “Lucifer and I — we kissed.”

Amara’s eyes darkened, and she shoved Dean to the cement roof, straddling him, a hand about his throat.

“_Why?_”

“He looks like Cas,” he answered honestly.

“You’re not _ with _ Castiel. You’re with me. Only me.”

“I know that, Amara,” he told her, knowing it was the truth. “It was a mistake.” He had thought he would feel fear at telling her this, that he would stutter over his words, but he didn’t. There was nothing but happiness there and a feeling of pleasure working its way throughout his body from having her on top of him. Despite the carnage around him, Dean wanted his clothes off. “Only you.”

She leaned down and kissed him, hard, body moving sinuously atop his, and Dean held her, and her grip tightened on his throat till he couldn’t breathe, and he experienced everything so much more, sensations doubling, tripling. He didn’t fight with her to have her let go. He let her do it, till he was seeing black spots in his vision, and then she released him. 

He sucked in a breath, breathed in her scent, and then she was telling him, “I will kill Lucifer for what he’s done.”

“Good, ‘cause he’s kinda annoying,” Dean joked.

Amara smiled, kissing him again.

“Now wait for Sam in the Boston Common. He’s coming down I-93. He’ll find you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Amara, in case I don’t make it back—”

“Dean, don’t worry about that,” she told him, brushing her nose against his, pain not registering even though it had been throbbing earlier and he was sure it was broken. “It’ll be alright.”

“How long till I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Amara—“

“It’ll be alright. Goodbye, Dean.”

Another kiss and Dean was leaving, ready to wait for his brother to come to him so he could kill him.

It would be the end.

  


Sam got off I-93, and it was somehow worse. He was down where even more people were, down with the ruined buildings. The first responders were down, the second responders, the third. Everyone was down. Demons had decided to paint the buildings in blood and obscene messages, like a twisted form of graffiti, and they’d even painted the Old State House, and the Trinity Church.

White arced through the sky.

They came upon more police officers, and this time Sam was dragged out of the car by the squadron of demons and made to fight. It lasted too long, nearly disarming him. By the time he was done he was bloodied, having lost his shotgun, his machete, a push dagger, his Ka-Bar US Army knife, and even the angel blade. But worse than that...

He’d killed. He’d killed humans. All of him was numb, but he felt the sweat on him, felt the hot blood, smelled the stench of death around him. He stumbled back into the Impala, the door creaking as it closed.

When lightning struck again — a bright red that spoke of doom — Sam saw something west of him, like a tornado in the sky: black, all black, seething, and raging. Amara. Dean would be there.

With the squadron of demons, Sam headed in that direction, and it grew easier and easier to clear a path the deeper into the city he went — demons had already swept by the area, killing. It was nearly lifeless now, the streets almost empty save for the injured that were moaning, near-dead.

More lightning, a bright, startling, yet sickly yellow like the eyes of Azazel, and the black had moved, complete and utter darkness even further west.

Dean.

Sam drove towards Dean in the car that was their only home now, the amulet he’d given to him all those long years ago hidden in his pocket, while it seemed like the end of everything was upon them. And it would be the end of his brother. Then Sam wouldn’t want to live anymore.

  


“Go wait in the Boston Common. It’ll be fine,” Dean told himself, wiping his angel blade off (he’d managed to find it in the dead officer from earlier).

Demons had attacked him, but they didn’t seem to be trying to kill him, just restrain him, and he wondered why.

Did Lucifer know how important he was to Amara? Did he think taking him out would weaken her?

Light and dark clashed in the sky. Dean found the light from Lucifer ironic, though he was called the “morning star,” and had been the brightest of archangels before his fall. His light was blinding compared to all the dark, leaving bars of color across his vision, even when he closed his eyes.

The Boston Common had been a wide open area of green with a garden way off to one side, and trees lining it, a great, stone bandstand near the center, but now the bandstand was destroyed, the trees knocked down, and the ground was muddied red, dead bodies sprawled here and there.

There was a hissing noise behind him, apparently from a demon who seemed to have gone feral from all this death surrounding them, and Dean turned, angel blade held at the ready, but he was already getting tackled, blade falling from his hand, landing in the mud, the back of his head knocking against a dead woman’s calf.

Dean headbutted the demon, leg wrapped around him, and he rolled. He tried to get his arm against his neck, but the demon bit him, deep. Dean cried out from the red-hot pain, and he wrenched his arm from him, feeling flesh tear as he did so. 

He punched him in the face, yelling, “_Exorciz_—” but then the demon’s hands were at his throat.

Dean struggled, trying to pry his fingers off, staring into those black, heartless eyes, those eyes that showed there wasn’t any mercy. And then he started reaching for the ground, for anything, a rock, maybe a shoe.

He found a chunk from the bandstand, nearly colorless in the dark, and he smashed his face in with it. The demon’s hands were off of him, but he was still alive. The fight nearly out of him from the grievous injury, Dean was given time to yell, “_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica! Ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!_”

Black shapes had been moving closer to him in the darkness, even more demons, and they had been writhing from his words, and now they fell to their knees, black smoke protruding from their mouths, the ground burning as they were exorcised.

Dean stood, wiped his blade off, checked that he had his other weapons — he did — and then the time he’d been waiting for came.

A familiar purring noise met his ears, the Impala drove up on the grass, crushing bodies as it went, wheels covered in crimson, all alone, the demons having dropped a couple of feet away. It rumbled to a stop, the weakened headlights staying on, and Sam stepped out of the car.

“Sammy.”

  


Sam was trembling at the sight of his brother. By now both of them were covered in blood, wild adrenaline in their eyes, the heat of battle taking them over. It had reached its height, but now Sam was on the verge of crashing, falling, never to get back up. He had to do this one thing, and he’d never return.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam greeted, voice low and rough with emotion.

He took out his pistol, hand shaking. Dean took his pistol out too, the two almost twins, the same model: Colt MK IV with pearl grips, though Dean’s had engravings on the barrel.

“I have orders,” Dean said.

Sam nodded, perfectly understanding what they were. “Me too.”

Sam dropped into a roll just before Dean fired.

He didn’t know how his brother was able to fire at him, but he did. Maybe he was still high through the work of Amara’s powers, maybe he was completely under her control. Maybe this wasn’t his brother, and Dean had died inside the night he’d been taken.

The black clothes, the devotion — it wasn’t him. If anything, Dean was devoted to _ him _, and himself. Devoted to Castiel too. Devoted to their family, not Amara.

“Dean, this isn’t you,” Sam tried, slowly standing to his full height.

Sam had his safety off, finger on the trigger. His vision blurred with unshed tears as he aimed it at his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to aim it at his chest, or even his head. The stomach would hurt, would take maybe thirty seconds to a minute for him to die that way, and he’d die in agony, or he could live, and he wanted to take that chance for him, but Sam wasn’t even sure he could bring himself to do it.

He’d get raped, yes.

But a life without his brother would be no life at all.

He pictured it as he stood there, like he was cut in half, his soul split in two, his organs ripped out of him, blood spurting. Sam would only be left half-alive. Maybe Lucifer wouldn’t find much enjoyment in raping that.

He raped him for power, raped him because he was his, his vessel, his entertainment, his show of strength.

But if he didn’t succeed he’d be raping him for punishment, tearing him apart to teach him a lesson, to show him who was in control.

Doing it because he felt he ruled him.

And he did.

But Sam’s soul had been ripped into so many times, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle it again, not even one last time.

Oddly enough he thought of _ Harry Potter _ at that moment. Killing Dean would be like creating his Horcrux, tearing his soul, his self.

“It is me,” Dean told him.

Dean’s finger moved, and Sam re-aimed, fired a warning shot near his foot, making Dean dodge to the side and fire, and Sam dropped back behind the Impala; he wondered if Dean would shoot his Baby. Maybe not.

“No, Dean, it’s not. And this isn’t me.”

“Then what are we doing, huh?” he asked. “I have to kill you!”

Sam tried to lift his head, body hurting with memories of Lucifer in him, _ remembering _, and he aimed a shot at Dean’s leg.

Dean knew him, so he moved, fired off nearly all the remaining rounds, and Sam found himself doing the same, panicked.

They ditched the guns, both pulling out knives — Dean his army knife, Sam the demon-killing knife.

“Come on out, Sammy!”

Sam swallowed thickly, Dean’s roughened, hard voice reminding him of when he’d been a demon.

“Let’s do this!”

Dean started stepping closer, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to go on the offensive. He stepped back around the car, willing to keep this game of dodging going as long as he possibly could. His brother got in close, lunged at him, and Sam found himself having to defend upwards, the knife coming towards his face. He parried, brushed it aside, got in a stab, which Dean blocked, and then he slashed at him, and the dance continued like that for a while, until Sam was standing up on the Impala.

Dean jumped up on the vehicle, chasing Sam up to the roof, and Sam quickly grabbed his push dagger from his belt, stabbing it into Dean’s gut. His brother grunted, falling from the car, and into the mud on his back, knife fallen from his hand. Sam jumped down, feet on either side of his body, and kicked the knife aside. Dean grabbed him, making Sam fall and smash into the side of the Impala, letting out a yell, and he was yelling too.

Dean pulled out an angel blade, slashing into Sam’s leg with it, leaving Sam crying out, trying to kick him to get away. He got him in the jaw, making his grip weaken, but he fell. Dean was at his belt now, tearing, getting his weapons away from him, lost on the grounds of the Boston Common, in the bloodied mess of the mud.

Sam kicked Dean’s weapon far out of reach, and now it was just the two of them. His older brother straddled him, punching him over and over again, fists bloodying, Sam’s face getting bloodied as well. He could smell it, taste it in his mouth, feel his face going utterly numb from the sheer number of hits. His eyes were watering, ears ringing, everything in him fading to black.

Maybe he should just let this happen.

No.

_ No. _

He had orders.

And Dean wouldn’t want this.

A memory came to Sam, a memory that hurt, that ripped through his lungs and stole his breath even more than this blinding pain did.

“_Sam, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you. I’m not gonna leave you._”

Tears sprung to Sam’s eyes, an ache building in his throat.

He’d been possessed, and Dean had said those words.

“Dean, it’s okay,” Sam got out, voice weakened as it came out past his bloodied lips. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Dean punched him again, this time in his chest, and Sam cried out before drawing in a rattling breath. “I’m not gonna… leave you.” A punch to his jaw. “I’m not gonna leave you.”

Dean was crying over his body now, but his hands were at his neck.

Sam did his best to yell, wordlessly, his hands going for Dean’s throat, and they squeezed, and squeezed, tears building and building, black spots in his vision.

Dean let up, and Sam punched him, then he grabbed his arm, twisting it, dislocating it at the elbow, and he threw him off of him.

His brother was a moaning mess on the ground, and Sam stood over him, kicking him, and kicking him, howling his pain.

“I don’t wanna kill you!” he shouted. “I don’t!”

After that, there were no words to describe his anguish, only wordless screams, and then Dean grabbed him, and Sam fell, and they rolled and rolled, and their hands were at each other’s necks, and they hit, and they grew weaker and weaker, and they cried.

They held each other.

Neither of them fought now, and both of them were fraught with pain, so alight with it they weren’t sure they could function anymore. But they got up, got over to the Impala, and they sat on the hood. They found their guns, were staring at them, and then each other. They only recognized each other because they’d been with each other their entire lives. Otherwise, all the blood and mud would’ve made them unknowable.

“I don’t wanna kill you, Sammy,” Dean said, sniffling.

“I don’t wanna kill you either,” Sam told him.

Dean turned, looked at all the destruction of the city, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to do so, knowing he’d watched it happen, had aided in some of it.

“You think there’s a place for us after this?”

“No place good.”

“You think we’ll be together?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah.”

Dean cleared his throat, tears trailing down his face, and Sam felt the same happening to himself. “It’s uh… being Amara’s um… slave, it hasn’t been fun.”

“Being Lucifer’s hasn’t been easy.”

“She… has sex with me, Sam.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice heavy and distraught, unable to see, blinded by tears, and blood trickling from his head down into his eyes. “Oh god, we gotta do this, don’t we?”

Dean took Sam’s hand, grasping it hard, and Sam drew the amulet from his pocket, putting it over his brother’s head and around his neck.

“You kept it?” Dean asked, fingering it in surprise.

“Thought you’d need it someday.”

“I do. Thanks, Sammy.” A deep breath, and then Dean told him, “We ain’t doin’ this for them. We’re doin’ this for us.”

Sam nodded, and he put his gun underneath Dean’s chin. Dean did the same for him. Tears tracked down their cheeks, dripping off their chins, and they gripped each other’s arms, something that wouldn’t even be separated in death.

“You think they’ll bring us back?”

“One way to find out.”

“Jerk,” Sam said, wanting to get the affectionate insult out one last time.

His brother responded in kind: “Bitch.”

“Love ya, Dean.”

“Love you too, Sammy.”

They both pulled the trigger.


End file.
